One Promise Kept: A Saga
by Manniness
Summary: Alice returns to Underland by means of a tragedy and chooses to stay. This is the story of the friend, the lover, the wife, the mother and the Champion she becomes there. NOW COMPLETE All 5 books of this series have been posted together here.
1. Book 1, A Much Madder Hatter, 1 of 4

_The following is a work of __**fan fiction**__. NO profit or compensation was provided in exchange. NO copyright infringement is intended._

_**One Promise Kept**_  
a fan fiction by Manniness  
_Alice in Wonderland (2010 film version)_

**Summary:** Alice makes a promise that is kept, but at a great cost. Surviving the consequences should have taught her to be more careful with future promises, but how can she refuse the queen her Champion? Or Tarrant Hightopp his Alice?

**Rated: M** for Violence, Character Death, Sexual Situations (non-explicit), Mature Language

**Status:** Finished! [Available on my homepage – please see my bio for the link, but PLEASE NOTE THE RATING and WARNINGS! The version I will post here will be rated M, in compliance with this site's policies.]

**Notes:** The following are **not **features of the film or books by Lewis Carroll and are my own creation/interpretation - (1) Underland geography/politics/other influential persons, (2) Outlandish accent/words/phrases with the exception of those found on Disney's The Glossary of Underland, (3) Biological differences between Alice and the people of Underland... more on that _later _in the story, (4) Tarrant Hightopp's range of mood-reflecting eye colors, (5) Tarrant Hightopp's childhood memories. If you have a question about whether or not something is from the film or books, please contact me via my homepage. Thank you!

* * *

**_Chapter One: A Much Madder Hatter _**[Scene 1 of 4]

The soft knock on the door sends the room's occupant into a frenzy of activity.

"Oh! Oh, you've arrived! At last. Come in, come in!"

A tea cup is inspected for dust and other unsightly blemishes before being set down once again on its saucer. It wobbles precariously before sliding into its niche safely. By that time, however, two pieces of silver have been polished on a slightly wrinkled waistcoat, the tea ball – minus the necessary tea – has begun to steep ineffectually in the tepid water of the blue teapot, and the plate of cucumber sandwiches has been turned over to prevent anyone from attempting to eat them now that they've been aged in the open air for several hours.

"Don't dawdle by the door! The tea is ready! Long past ready! Although I... well, that's not to say you're late... No, no, I wouldn't say you're late, but I am so _very_ glad you've come! Sit down! Sit down!"

The man in the room hurriedly strides toward the open door and gestures as if waiting for a lady's hand to be presented to him. He then mimes guiding her, his invisible guest, to the table. A chair is pulled out and then gently pushed in.

"It's been so very long since we've had tea, hasn't it, Alice? Would you like a scone? No, no, not one of those." The offending pastry is thrown in the general direction of the bay window, but bounces against the curtain, releasing a puff of dust.

"Let us see... How about a cake? Here, I know I have a very nice slice of lemon cake here for you... Ah, finally!" The slice hovers over an empty plate for a moment.

The man tilts his head to the side as if listening to his guest. "What was that? No cake?" The serving ware trembles in his pale hands and the slice plops down upon the pristine tablecloth. With a flick of his wrists, the gleaming utensils are tossed over his shoulder, clattering against the wall, and a tray of fruit is slammed down on top of the fallen slice of cake, obliterating it.

"Very well, very well," the man continues in a calm tone, taking his seat. "Are you quite comfortable with your teaspoon?" he asks seriously and seems to listen quite intently to the reply.

He steeples his fingers and leans toward the chair opposite. His bushy red brows draw together over green eyes that nearly glow with their intensity.

"Alice," he begins, and the tone of his voice is significant, his lisp endearing, "why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Standing in the doorway to her beloved Hatter's rooms, Mirana, the White Queen of Underland, closes her eyes and turns away from the scene: nothing has changed. Every week she stops by his apartment in the castle to see how he's getting on and every week his delusions grow more and more elaborate. She knows what comes next – she's heard it dozens of times before – but she flinches nonetheless.

"You must speak louder, Alice, I cannae hear ye..." the Hatter murmurs softly, his Scottish brogue thickening the words and deepening his voice.

And then more forcefully: "I wi'nae speak teh a figment of yer imagination!"

And finally: "What things have ye finished, ALICE? WHAT NECESSARY DUTIES HAVE YE DISAPPEARED TEH? YE WILL FINISH YER TEA 'AFORE YE TRY THAT UPELKUCHEN! WHY MUST YE INSIST ON BEIN' TOO SMALL OR TOO TALL FOR TH' TEA SERVICE, **ALICE?**"

Mirana flinches as the teapot with its empty tea ball and tepid water crashes against the wall just an arm's length from her face. The Hatter leaps upon the table, stomping the overturned plate of cucumber sandwiches with his boot.

The first dozen times she'd seen this particular opera, Mirana had tried to reason with him, calm him, bring him back to the here and now in Underland. And, the first dozen times, it had worked.

However, interrupting his teatime delusions have not been possible for some time now.

Now she knows there is no comfort she can give her very dear old friend that he will accept. No, only one person can reach him. The one person he has been waiting for ever since she'd drunk the blood of the Jabberwocky and disappeared from the checkered battlefield.

Mirana closes the door behind her. And barely a moment later, a teacup – or some other piece of china – explodes against it. For months, Tarrant Hightopp has been waiting for his dearest Alice to return as she'd promised. For months, he's been hosting these lonely, weekly tea parties before destroying the contents of his parlor. For months, the Queen of Underland has merely watched and waited for a single promise to be kept.

But no longer.

To the casual observer, Mirana seems to wander gracefully through the castle, in the general direction of her office, but actually, the queen is quite intent on her destination. She drifts into the room and, pivoting neatly, closes the door behind her. She considers the calendar on the far wall and sighs. Mirana had hoped to give her dearest Champion a bit _more_ time to return to Underland on her own. After all, there is _still_ time, a _bit_ of time before she will be required to attend to her duties.

However...

The sound of broken glass startles her. Hand fluttering over her heart, Mirana glances outside in time to see a small tea table, draped in a white tablecloth, with a good half of the surviving tea service and silverware settings, crash to her balcony.

Perhaps she shouldn't have offered Tarrant the room above her study after all...

She approaches the pile of broken engagements slowly, dreading the sight of a certain Hatter following them in his despair. In the open doorway, out of sight, she pauses.

A sob escapes the broken bay window above.

"Alice..."

Mirana closes her eyes, recognizing that soft lisp.

"You _promised_, Alice..."

His tears are silent but not his pain. She flinches as a strangled cry echoes through the valley. Mirana waits, not sure of what she would or could do if her Hatter decides to join the tea table on her balcony. But, in the end, all is silent.

Wiping a tear away, she calls her footmen.

"Please see that Mr. Hightopp is comfortable and, if he is sleeping soundly, perhaps this would be a good time to straighten up his rooms a bit."

"As you wish, Your Majesty."

As the frog in the pale grey waistcoat bows himself out, Mirana settles down at her desk and tries to focus on the royal decrees awaiting her seal and signature. But she can't. With a frustrated growl, she stabs her quill back in its stand and lets her mind wander where it undoubtedly wants to go.

It saddens Mirana that she cannot simply _ask_ Alice to come back for the sake of the Hatter. After all, Alice _had_ promised him she would return. Mirana certainly hadn't expected Alice to be so long in getting back to him on that. So there had been no reason _not _to agree to Hatter's request all those months ago when he'd still been speaking to actual people at teatime:

"_Promise me ye wi' nae bring __**her**_ _back teh Underland. Promise me ye'll leave her be..."_

_"Of course, Tarrant. It won't be long now..."_

What a silly, stupid promise Mirana had made.

And she'll have to keep it.

* * *

[End of Chapter 1: Scene 1 of 4]


	2. Book 1, A Much Madder Hatter, 2 of 4

**_Chapter One: A Much Madder Hatter _**[Scene 2 of 4]

The White Queen of Underland has been spying on – _No, no! __**Watching**_ _over!_ – her wayward Uplandian champion for nearly a year.

It had taken a bit of doing, naturally. Absolum's information had been invaluable in helping Mirana locate both Alice's ship and the correct mirror aboard it.

Those first few months of Alice's journey had been a pleasure to watch. The White Queen's Champion had glowed with pride and purpose. Mirana had nearly pushed through the mirror to ask Alice all about the challenges she must have faced and defeated in her journey thus far. It had been quite obvious that Underland's Champion had indeed won the right to sail away on that grand vessel on a wondrous journey. Yes, those first months at sea, Alice had been a thing of beauty.

Mirana had even thought to invite the Hatter to share these looking glass visits:

"My dear Hatter, your work is wonderful!" Mirana had exclaimed, modeling the tiniest cap she'd ever seen. It sparkled and shimmered and she imagined it would look undeniably fetching if she put her hair up and perched the hat just _so_. "I do wish Alice could see your creations! In fact, I should like to ask her what she thinks of this one! There is a way, you know, to see her where she is now, speak with her..."

Still smiling, she'd turned to behold an odd sight: her Hatter, Tarrant Hightopp, had been staring unblinkingly at the terribly crushed once-had-been-a-hat in his hands.

"Tarrant?"

So very softly, he had murmured, "I was nae talented enough teh keep her. 'Tis best this way. Were I teh see her again... Nae... Nae. I woul'nae be able teh let her leave again..."

Slightly alarmed, the White Queen had pressed, "Tarrant? Are you all right?"

The Hatter had shaken himself, losing his Outlandish brogue. His eyes had flashed peridot green, but his lisp had been light and lilting: "The Alice in my memory is _mine_. She can't be taken from me as I've already caught her, you see. So, there'll be no more talk of... Oh! Oh!" He'd finally noticed the remnants of the hat clutched in his fists. "I'd rather liked this one. Pity."

And then, with bright smile and a cleansing breath, he'd tossed the scraps over his shoulder and reached for another. "Never mind. Never mind. Would you like to try this one, Your Majesty?"

Mirana had glanced at the orange fez he'd offered her. The hat had been so obviously wrong for Mirana that the queen had known immediately that Tarrant had been _desperate_ to change the subject of their conversation. The poor man could barely focus enough to offer her the correct hat!

"Perhaps something in a dark red or violet?" she'd suggested. And she hadn't imagined the relief in his eyes when he'd jumped to comply.

The White Queen regards her vanity mirror with a sad shake of her head. Oh, how she'd wanted to show him Alice all those months ago! But she'd sensed that seeing Alice with that triumphant smile curving her lips and that light in her eyes, looking every bit the Champion she is... It would have broken her friend in ways she couldn't have borne. So, the queen had kept this secret window to herself and had contented herself with checking on Alice only once in a while. In silence, Mirana had shared Alice's good fortune... for as long as it had lasted.

Mirana can't put her finger on when exactly Alice's fortune had changed, but recently it has been undeniably obvious how very miserable Alice has become.

_Perhaps she misses her family?_

Mirana had watched as Alice had written letter after letter to her mother and elder sister. In those times, Alice had seemed to martial her resolve not cry her heart out. No, those miserable moments had come after the letters to her family had been sealed and put into her jacket pocket for safe keeping.

Time after time, Mirana has watched as Alice had placed a fresh sheet of stationary on her writing desk, had filled her pen from the inkwell, but had written nothing at all. Not with ink at least. Those inkless letters she'd only ever composed with tears.

"Who do you send your tears to, Alice?" Mirana wonders for the ninety-times-ninth time.

With a sigh, Mirana gently waves a hand in front of her vanity mirror and waits as her reflection melts into the dull, shadowy cabin aboard the ship that is carrying Alice across the oceans of Upland. Once again, Alice is at her writing desk and Mirana looks down upon the young woman as she finishes off a letter to her mother. (It had taken a good deal of practice to master the ability to read letters upside-down and through a mirror and Mirana is quite proud of the fact that she'd accomplished it!)

Once again, Mirana watches as Alice folds her letters, seals them in envelopes and once again tucks them into the inside pocket of her jacket, which has been hung on the back of her wooden chair. Again, the White Queen watches as Alice places a fresh sheet on the desk, inks her pen and, with teary eyes, begins the third letter she's never before managed to write:

_My dearest Hatter,_

Mirana gasps and presses her face closer to the glass.

_I am writing in hopes that you will be able to forgive me for leaving Underland. Although I knew I'd had to go back to England after slaying the Jabberwocky, I should not have kept you waiting so very long._

Alice pauses, bites her lip, and appears to mumble. Unfortunately, due to the glass between them, the queen cannot hear anything from Alice's side.

Alice takes a deep breath, inks her pen once again, and continues:

_I can't say I regret taking this chance. (I never told you I'd gone into the trading business.) At first, I'd been quite good at it. However, things have not turned out as well as I'd hoped. In fact, I've failed miserably._

_I wish I'd never left Underland. I fear going back now. I've nothing to tie me here but it feels as if I'm running away. A coward. What has happened to the girl who slew the Jabberwocky? When I look in the mirror, I no longer see her. I can't help but wonder if I might find her reflected in your eyes, were I to sit with you at your tea table again._

_I think I've lost my muchness. And I'm not sure I'll be able to find it again. So, perhaps this is all for the best: you deserve a much better friend than a woman who passes each hour wishing for nothing more than to hide from her troubles._

_I am so sorry Hatter. I miss you dreadfully. Would you welcome me back if I were to come? Would you think any less of me for running away from my failures?_

_You are, as always, in my thoughts._

_Yours utterly,_

_Alice_

Mirana sniffs delicately and wipes a tear from her eye. After a series of eyelash fluttering blinks, she notices that Alice is speaking again and this time, Mirana dares to hear the words. She presses her face against the glass until the salty, humid sea air assaults her senses. She wrinkles her nose when she notices the air is heavy with not only the ocean's breath but with the scent of unwashed bodies and closed doors and latched windows. She presses a bit further until one ear passes through the glass.

"Ridiculous, Alice. What was gained by writing that rubbish down? Do you feel any better now? Of course not. Why not stare at your failures a bit longer? Perhaps give yourself a paper cut and rub a bit of salt in it for good measure!"

Mirana presses a bit further until her entire face and both ears have emerged from the glass. Alice does not notice. The White Queen looks down upon the young woman's unwashed hair as she pillows her forehead on her folded arms. In her right hand, the letter to Tarrant has been crushed, reminding the queen of the hat she'd never had the opportunity to try on.

_Oh, Alice. How I wish I __**could**_ _ask you to come back..._

Mirana closes her eyes and withdraws from the cabin mirror.

"This cannot go on," the White Queen declares to her lace handkerchief.

Of course, she would never have expected Fate to overhear her... much less agree.

* * *

[End of Chapter 1 Scene 2]


	3. Book 1, A Much Madder Hatter, 3 of 4

**_Chapter One: A Much Madder Hatter _**[Scene 3 of 4]

"Tarrant, thank you so much for making this delivery today." The White Queen rises and drifts over to the tea service. "Can I offer you a cup of Throeston Blend?"

In unnerving – but unfortunately characteristic – silence, the Hatter sets a smallish hatbox down on the flagstones and takes a seat. "Thank you," he replies demurely, accepting the beverage.

The queen tries not to stare at him but Tarrant Hightopp's un-Saturday behavior never ceases to frighten her. (In a quiet way, of course, as her Hatter is so much _more _quieter on these days. As silent as an asteroid that falls from the sky without appearing to move. She cannot help waiting for the inevitable impact.)

Mirana takes note of his eyes and reads his mood: again those once-was-ever-bright green eyes have dulled to a wishy-washy, foul-storm green-grey. She sees dark shadows beneath the mercury stains around those eyes as well. Over the years, his hair has grown longer, but she guesses that it has not been washed in days. Perhaps not since last Saturday. The queen redirects her gaze to her cup and reaches for the cream, trying not to look alarmed at how completely her Royal Hatter is falling apart.

After a moment, Mirana clears her throat. "I would like to ask for your advice, if I might."

Tarrant takes an automatic sip of his tea and stares into its depths. "If it pleases Your Majesty."

Ignoring that frustratingly bland acquiescence, she forges onward, "I'm in a bit of quandary: A very good friend of mine is in trouble. This trouble could easily be remedied if not for one complication."

Mirana watches her guest gaze into his tea, his neglected eyebrows twitching occasionally but his eyes remaining that horrible, lifeless, muddy green.

"It's a promise, you see," Mirana continues. "My promise to you, Tarrant."

The Royal Hatter says nothing. His fingers curl tighter around the tea cup.

"Please, permit me to break it..."

"_**NO**_!" An instant after the outburst, the teacup explodes in his hands.

The queen ignores the droplets of tea staining her dress and dripping down her nose. "Stop this, Tarrant! She's miserable! _You're _miserable! Allow me bring her _home!_"

Tarrant's eyes begin to simmer a yellowish green-grey. She ignores his anger and pulls him toward the vanity mirror against the wall of her office. "Cease this exercise in foolishness, Tarrant, and just _look_ at her."

Mirana grips his shoulders and holds him in front of the mirror. She can't force him to open his eyes or even turn his head toward it, however. But _she _can see the dingy cabin well enough over his shoulder. Alice is there, as she nearly always is at this time of day. She's sitting on her bed, pulling on her boots. Despite the steadiness of the image, Alice has trouble standing and she looks alarmingly pale and worn. The queen watches her stagger to the door and disappear into the hall.

Although there's nothing much to be seen in the mirror anymore, Mirana doesn't dispel the image. She drops her hands from his shoulders and – grasping his elbow –turns him toward her so that she might look Tarrant in the eyes. Seeing them pressed tightly closed, she sighs.

"Did you even look at her?"

"Ye..." The arm under her hand shudders. "Ye've been... watchin' _her?_"

"I have."

"Ye... promised me..."

"I promised I wouldn't bring her back to Underland. And _that promise,_ Tarrant Hightopp, has become Alice's _punishment! _Do you understand what I'm telling you? She _wants to come home! _Not in a month or a year but _right this instant!"_

Tarrant steps back. His expression is meek, his eyes murky once again. Mirana is not surprised to hear his courteous lisp rather than the impassioned brogue. "Then she'll have to find her way back to us on her own." He bends and retrieves the hatbox from the floor and places it on the vanity. "Your hat, Your Majesty. If you have further requests, please advise me." With that, the Royal Hatter turns toward the door.

Deflated, defeated, and dreadfully frustrated, Mirana tells him, "I'll not bring her through, but I'm not closing this mirror to her."

Mirana watches him hesitate to take his next step, and hope rises within her...

And then is squashed flat as he continues out the door.

He doesn't even slam it behind him.

Mirana stares after him for a moment before sinking down onto her vanity bench. With the closed office door before her, and the secured cabin door behind her, Mirana has never felt more trapped.

* * *

[End of Chapter 1: Scene 3]


	4. Book 1, A Much Madder Hatter, 4 of 4

**_Chapter One: A Much Madder Hatter _**[Scene 4 of 4]

Unfortunately, it's her chief of staff, a gryphon called Fenruffle, who suffers from her distraction that afternoon.

"Your Majesty?" he prompts her.

"Yes, yes, I'm listening."

"Ah, of course." He clears his throat. "Then, what has Your Majesty decided to do about the Wooing Rites?"

"Yes, that's fine."

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but, as reassuring as it is to hear you say that, it won't help me allocate castle resources should you decide to host the customary banquet at the opening of the event."

"A banquet? For whom?" She blinks in an attempt to clear her thoughts.

Fenruffle closes his golden eyes and, with an air of regal suffering, explains, "The candidates, Your Majesty, for the Wooing Rites."

"Well, but, it's a bit early to be thinking about that just yet..."

"It's a well-known fact that Your Majesty has chosen a Champion. And, according to the laws of Underland, any eligible male may ask for your hand in marriage. We've received several inquiries. Especially recently."

Mirana smiles away her irritation. "Ah, yes. I see. Well, they are welcome to try to win my favor as soon as my Champion returns."

Fenruffle gives her a long look. "It has been three years, two weeks, and six days since the Jabberwocky was slain by your Champion..."

"Yes, of course. I have been keeping an eye on the date."

"Hmm. So I shall instruct your secretary to dispatch replies explaining that your Champion will be available to answer their challenges by the Dimmer Solstice? That will give Alice a full thirty-one days to evaluate the candidates before her other obligations become pressing."

The White Queen smiles at him. "I haven't decided on the banquet yet. I'll just... consult with... and I'll... let's see... How does next Monday morning sound? We'll have a full discussion of these issues then." Is it wrong of her to hope that something woefully catastrophic will happen before then that will relegate the issue to the waste bin? Mirana winces.

Fenruffle gathers himself. She pretends not to see his fierce frown. "Very well, Your Majesty."

Mirana watches him go, sighing with relief only when the gryphon is out of sight. She stares around her at the Royal Library and slumps very uncharacteristically in her very comfortable chair. Her intention of spending her one free afternoon this week by researching other ways of bringing someone to Underland _unintentionally_ has been completely circumvented.

Botheration.

She returns the dusty tomes she'd selected to their places and sweeps out of the room, up the stairs, and down the hall to her office. She reaches out a hand to open the door, but the doorknob stops her.

"The Hatter's inside," the latch says with a disdainful sniff. "Sitting at Your Majesty's vanity. Can't see what he's doing, but I've a bet with Seamus across the hall he's trying on Your Majesty's rouge."

"Thank you for the warning," Mirana whispers and eases open the door.

She smiles with relief at the sight of a man with wild, orange hair sitting on her vanity bench. He reaches out a hand to the mirror in front of him.

He says nothing, but she can hear the echo of a name in the room nonetheless: "_Alice..."_

Mirana glides across the threshold and closes the door. Tarrant doesn't move from his seat. The White Queen crosses the room and lays a hand gently on his shoulder.

"How is she, Tarrant?"

"If not for the weariness about her... rather... frumious."

"Indeed she is," Mirana says, glancing in the mirror at Alice as she sits at her writing desk, attempting to complete a report. The pen leaps across the page so much that Mirana can barely make out two words out of ten.

"It must be a very bad storm," she murmurs.

On the bench, Tarrant stills. "Storm?"

"Undoubtedly. It's been going on for quite a while. Since this morning." After all, Alice doesn't _normally_ stagger from left to right on her way out the door. Eying the report through the looking glass, Mirana frowns as she reads the following words:

_Lost five men..._

_Sails irreparable..._

Alice puts her pen down and presses a fist to her mouth. Mirana winces at the woman's pallor and the dark circles beneath her eyes. Now that she's looking, she can see Alice's clothes are completely soaked and her hair is a tangled mess!

Without any warning whatsoever, Alice tumbles from her chair and over her upended bed. Mirana gapes as Alice crashes against the wall, raising her arms just in time to stop the chair from striking her in the head. She manages to twist out of the way before the writing desk tips over onto her against the wall.

Tarrant gapes. "That...! What...?"

In the mirror, Alice scrambles for the door, pushing up against the wall and bracing her arms against the ceiling, as if the ship has turned on its side. She reaches for the door latch, but pauses. Mirana follows her Champion's horrified gaze to the seawater rushing in between the door and the frame.

Frozen with horror, the queen doesn't even flinch as Tarrant stands, grasps the vanity mirror with both hands and bellows: "_**ALICE!**_"

The water in the tilted cabin has risen to Alice's ankles now and Mirana wonders how much longer the flimsy-looking door will be able to withstand the weight of the water.

"Tarrant," she whispers. "Let me save her. _Please_."

She places a hand on his arm. His fingers uncurl from the mirror frame and fist at his sides but his gaze never wavers from the looking glass. "No."

"Tarrant!"

Mirana stares at him but his voice is calm, steady. His Outlandish brogue is a vague memory in his words: "No, I'll do it. Just be ready to pull us through."

The queen lunges as he tenses, readying himself to leap through the mirror. "You can't! The mirror's not large enough on the other side! Just your head and one arm. Do you understand? That's all that'll fit." _And thank the Fates she'd investigated those dimensions herself not too long ago!_

She examines his profile. Mirana knows they don't have time for this conversation, especially when she still needs to locate the dose of Pishsalver Alice will need. But they have even _less_ time for ill-prepared heroics that get both her Champion and her Hatter killed.

"Only your head and your arm, Tarrant!"

He nods, whips off his hat, and leans down, pressing his face against the mirror. Mirana doesn't linger, watching him sink into the looking glass up to his neck. The water's at Alice's knees now. And there's a Shrinking Potion to be found.

* * *

[End of Chapter 1]


	5. Book 1, A Devastating Homecoming, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Two: A Devastating Homecoming**_ [Scenes 1&2 of 6]

Tarrant Hightopp barely notices the reflection of his own eyes, burning orange, before he presses first his forehead, then his nose and chin through the looking glass. He scrambles for leverage in order to shove his right hand through even before his face is free.

The smells hit him first: fear and wet wood and salt water.

_"Alice!"_

She turns at the sound of her name. Tarrant watches as she struggles with the door. The weight of the water has bowed the wood.

"Hatter!" she calls. And despite her panic, Tarrant sees such relief in her eyes it nearly distracts him from his urgency. "The ship's sinking. I think..."

"'_Tis nae time fer thinkin'!_"

Beside his face, the thin, slender hand of the queen pushes through the looking glass, holding a vial of Pishsalver.

Tarrant struggles for self-control. "Drink it and take my hand! I'm pulling ye through!"

Alice glances at the door she's bracing with her arms and body. "But, if I move...?"

His precarious control snaps: "'_Tis nae time teh a-grye 'n' a-gimble!_"

Tarrant watches resolve tighten her expression. She dives from the door toward his outstretched hand. In the same instant, the flimsy latch gives way, the door bangs open, and a wall of seawater crashes inside.

Alice doesn't swim so much as she's _shoved_ at Tarrant. He hastily grabs her arm and curls his fingers around her jacket sleeve and the soft flesh beneath. Alice reaches frantically for the Shrinking Potion and gulps it down. Tarrant hears her sputter and gasp just before the water submerges the mirror. Eyes stinging in the rushing, swirling salty seawater, Tarrant Hightopp pulls her toward him before she manages to shrink right out of his grasp completely.

* * *

Never, in all of his life, has Tarrant Hightopp been so happy – so deliriously fantastically ecstatically happy – to be choking on seawater. He smiles through his coughing fit as a doll-sized Alice vomits bile and more seawater all over his waistcoat. He thinks he hears the White Queen calling for water and blankets, but he doesn't care. Tarrant stares at the shivering, pale creature in his arms, weighted down with the clothes that had jumped through the mirror _with_ her rather than _on _her.

_Alice!_

Tarrant closes his eyes, minds his hands – _it wouldn't do at all to crush Alice less than a minute after saving her from a sinking ship!_ – and laughs.

"He certainly is a mad one, isn't he?" someone croaks froggily.

Tarrant opens his eyes wide enough to locate and then snatch the towels draped over the servant's arm. He drapes the first tea towel over Alice and wipes his own face with the second. Cups of water are pressed to both his lips and Alice's. Out of the corner of his eye, he watches as she struggles to hold the tea towel up as she gulps down as much water as she can from the goblet being held obligingly by the White Queen.

He tries not to stare at her bare shoulders. He really does. _Shoulders really ought not to have such attention-demanding properties! _It's surprisingly difficult, but he manages _not_ to gawk. At least, he _thinks_ so...

"Alice! You've made it back to us!" the queen enthuses softly.

Alice nods and coughs. "As... long... it's... Thank you... Your... Majesty."

The White Queen smiles. "There's my Champion. Rest for now." The queen tucks the tea towel around her securely and helps her slide down from Tarrant's stomach. The sensation of her small feet sliding across his side is actually rather ticklish, but he doesn't giggle.

Tarrant Hightopp is staring blankly up at the ceiling, considering the odd qualifier Alice had choked out: "As long... it's..." _As long as it's __**what**__?_ Tarrant wants to know.

But not right now. He doesn't want to know right now. Actually, he has a stomach ache, which is odd as he hasn't done anything to upset his stomach. (Well, not that he can recall!) And, he's not entirely sure, but he thinks it's odd for a stomach to reside in the center of a person's chest. Still, it's a stomach ache. It must be! It can't be anything else!

"Hatter?"

Tarrant startles and looks down into a very familiar yet very, very small face. An Alice face.

"Alice?"

She smiles at the sound of her own name, lisped just as softly as the last time she'd arrived in Underland. He studies her hair – he's never seen it wet before and it's a darkish, tangled mass. He notes with relief that her shoulders have been covered by someone's handkerchief – the queen's perhaps? He doesn't recognize the lace... Tarrant experiences the fleeting urge to tell Alice she looks rather fetching in borrowed handkerchiefs, but his unanswered question – _As long as it's __**what**__?_ – locks his throat and his stomach ache flares again.

"Thank you," she says simply. Tarrant watches as she reaches out to straighten his cravat. "And I'm sorry I... I'm sorry about your waistcoat."

"It's seen far worse treatment than I ever have, I assure you," he hears himself say.

Alice laughs in that silent, breathless way of hers. She sits down on the flagstone and accepts a teaspoon – finally a receptacle scaled to her size! – of water. The handle is a bit unwieldy but she seems to manage.

With a sigh, she leans back against Tarrant's shoulder. "I don't want to wake up this time," she murmurs groggily.

Forgetting the presence of the queen and her footmen milling about as they gather up Alice's sodden clothing and refill her teaspoon and his goblet, Tarrant chuckles. "You won't. This time, it's _my_ dream you're in."

Oh, how he would like that if it were so – if it _truly _were _his_ dream she'd appeared in! Why, she'd be the right, proper Alice-size and she'd be dressed in that luminous tunic that she'd been wearing when he'd made it back to the White Queen's castle after escaping execution. And her hair would be down and her scent would drift on the breeze to him and he never would have had to miss her for a single day because she would have kept her promise:

_"Be back before you know it!"_

In his dreams, he wouldn't have had to wait three years for her to come back to him. In his dreams, she would have come back to him in the _very next __**instant**_, all on her _own_, of her _own choice!_ In his dreams, she would look at him like _she_... as if _he_...

Tarrant closes his eyes briefly and damns his stomach ache. Instead, he focuses on the weight – so slight! – against his left shoulder. When he opens his eyes again, the White Queen is leaning over him, smiling.

"Shall I move our Champion to the settee so you can get up?" she asks in a whisper.

Tarrant glances down. Alice has curled up against his shoulder and appears to have drifted off to sleep.

"Nae," he murmurs. "'Twon' do teh force me inteh bed now that I've made myself comfortable here."

The queen nods and moves off. With her white dress and mincing steps, she almost looks like a fluffy cloud. A cloud in the Royal Office... and salt water in his hair and eyes... and a doll-Alice leaning against the dripping brocade of his jacket...

_And she remembers me!_

Tarrant grins up at the ceiling, for certainly, _that's_ something to be pleased with!

Although it doesn't do much for the odd center-of-his-chest stomach ache.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2: Scenes 1&2]


	6. Book 1, A Devastating Homecoming, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Two: A Devastating Homecoming **_[Scenes 3 & 4]

When Alice opens her eyes, the first thing she notices is the ache throughout her entire body. She winces at the pain stabbing her through the temples and forehead and moves, very slowly, to cradle her head in her arching arms.

The second thing she notices is that she's lying on a very nice – _but enormous! _– settee in a lady's study.

And then, as she sits up in order to get a better view of her surroundings, she realizes that she's clothed in a towel and a handkerchief.

"Ah, Alice, welcome back." Alice looks over her shoulder as the White Queen moves toward her with a wide smile. "How are you feeling?"

Alice tucks the tea towel more securely around her. "I... Am I dreaming?"

"No, dear Alice, I'm quite certain you're not."

"The Hatter...?"

"Pulled you through the mirror in your cabin."

Butterflies erupt in her stomach at the memory. "So he _was_ here earlier..."

"Yes. It's nearly dinnertime. He'll be rejoining us shortly."

Alice nods. "And Lord Ascot's steam clipper? The ship, I mean?"

The White Queen's smile fades. "The mirror is completely dark now."

"Dark?" She follows the queen's gaze to the nearest mirror – a looking glass under a lovely, carved arch atop a vanity. The top of the vanity bureau has been cleared of everything and she thinks she sees a few droplets of water stubbornly clinging under the face of the drawers. Alice swallows thickly. "It's sunk?"

"I'm afraid it has."

Numb, Alice nods. She briefly closes her eyes and thinks of the thirty-seven men that had been aboard.

"Come, Alice. Let's get you back to your proper size and into a bath."

Alice lets Mirana carry her through the castle to a luxurious bathroom. A bit of Upelkuchen and a hot bath later and Alice follows a silver fish in a very fine mint-green brocade waistcoat to the dining room. As she approaches the door, she hears the queen's quiet voice and beseeching tone.

"Please, Tarrant, she is here now. Let us not dwell on what cannot be changed."

Alice strains to here the Hatter's reply, but there is only silence.

"Your Majesty," the fish announces suddenly, startling Alice. "Alice." He gestures her into the room and closes the door behind her.

Mirana smiles and sweeps toward her. Collecting Alice's hand, the queen turns them both toward their seats. Alice stares at the long table with its shimmering table cloth and gleaming, covered platters. The room is predominantly white and silver and just _exactly _how she remembers it. The only blotch of chaotic color and darkness in the entire room is the Hatter, who sits quietly in a chair to the left of the queen's, staring at his empty plate.

"You look somewhat refreshed," the queen says as she maneuvers Alice to the table.

Alice watches as the Hatter stands automatically. Eyes still downcast, he strides to the opposite chair and pulls it out.

"I... yes, thank you, Your Majesty." Alice pauses beside her chair. She looks up at the Hatter. "Thank you for saving me, Hatter," she says, feeling suddenly shy.

His gaze flickers briefly in her direction. She glimpses solemn green rather than the radiant emerald she remembers.

"I... Well, that is... you are welcome," he mumbles.

Alice sits and watches as the Hatter also sees to the queen's chair before returning to his own. As they eat, the White Queen tells Alice of the events she'd missed. It's a relief to know that Mallymkun, Thackery, Chessur, Bayard and his family, Absolum, the Tweedles, and even the Bandersnatch are all well and, in several cases, reemployed. Mirana regales her of the celebrations following her return to power.

"I'm sorry I missed that," Alice replies, imagining Chessur and Bayard in a paw-wrestling match. "But I did get to see some rather amazing Futterwhacken." She smiles across the table and the Hatter's startled gaze meets hers briefly.

"I'm sorry I was away so long. I wish I'd been able to come back sooner," Alice murmurs, thinking of how impossible it had been to escape the clipper once she'd boarded it. She frowns. "And without paying such a heavy price."

The Hatter sits up straight. "And just what sort of price did you think you'd pay for a broken promise?"

For a moment, Alice simply blinks at him. "I... what? Price?"

The silverware shakes in the Hatter's hands. "Di'nae yeh ken tha' a promise can only be stretched so far 'afore it breaks?"

Alice can think of nothing to say for a long moment. "Are you... are you saying promises... Here in Underland, broken promises hurt people?"

The Hatter draws in a breath and his eyes flash. Mirana holds up a hand and turns toward Alice. "Yes. Broken promises have terrible consequences in Underland. Is this not the case in Upland?"

Still watching the Hatter, Alice shakes her head. "No. Of course, legal contracts and the law – if broken – have consequences. But those are enforced by the justice system, not..."

"Underland is quite different, then," the queen says. "A promise is the most sacred of things here. And although they _can_ be broken, the price is always... considerably high." Alice notices the stern look the queen sends in the Hatter's direction.

"But... I _haven't_ broken any promises... have I?"

The Hatter's eyes flash a bright yellow. His chair squeals against the floor as he abruptly stands. Without another word, he strides from the room. The door slams behind him. Alice stares at it for a long moment. "I don't understand..."

Mirana sighs, drawing Alice's attention back to her. "Yes, I see that you don't." Expression regretful, the queen explains, "When you left us on Frabjous Day three years ago, you told Tarrant you'd be back before he knew it. You promised him, in a way."

Alice gapes at her.

"And, I'm afraid, he _did _know it. For a very long time. And Fate got quite irritated with you for making him wait when you'd said you wouldn't."

"Wait... you mean... the _storm?_ The _ship?_ The thirty-seven men who _died?_ This is all _my fault?_"

"It is _no one's _fault!" the queen replies in a frustrated tone Alice has never heard from her. "It is the law of Underland: promises _must_ be kept." The queen's expression turns pensive. "Do not blame yourself. And do not blame Tarrant for trying to keep you here. You don't know how powerfully you affect him..."

"Who cares?" The shout echoes in the white room. Alice pushes back her own chair. Her entire body heats with rage. "Thirty-seven _people_ are _dead!_ Why didn't someone stop him from..." _From what? Trying to convince me to stay after the battle had been won?_ "... or stop me from promising him? How could this _happen?_"

Alice paces the room four times before the queen quietly offers, "How could it not, Alice? How could it have _not _happened? Tarrant invited you to promise to return and you made it. Ignorant of the consequences, but you made it nonetheless. Time gave Tarrant two years to wait for you. But this last year, his madness has deepened... greatly. And not from hat-making."

Slumping into her chair again, Alice thinks for a long minute before arriving at a possible solution to the situation. A solution that hadn't been played out until this afternoon. Alice wearily asks, "The mirror. If you could have pulled me through the mirror sooner, why didn't you?" Perhaps then the shipwreck, the _deaths_, might have been avoided...

The queen leans back in her chair, suddenly looking very tired. "_I_ couldn't pull you through the mirror, Alice."

Alice remembers those frenzied moments in her cabin: the Hatter's blazing eyes, his outstretched arm, his hand reaching for her... "The Hatter pulled me through. Why then? Because I was about to die?"

Mirana gazes upon Alice with such a look of compassion and regret that Alice isn't sure she really wants to know the answer to her question. "Tarrant has been waiting for _you_ to come back to _us._ He did not want to _force_ you to return, or even _persuade_ you to give up your life in Upland... I think, perhaps, because he feared you'd soon have to leave us again. He felt so strongly about it he made _me_ promise _not_ bring you back to Underland myself."

"He...?"

"Do not be angry with him, Alice. This was _my_ mistake. I should not have made that promise. I regret it. Very deeply."

"But, he...?"

"Yes, it's true; perhaps, Tarrant wasn't thinking very clearly. He rarely _seems_ to, but he _does_. Perhaps the _most_ clearly of all of us, in fact. I've never known him to let details cloud the truth. But this... I do not know why he did what he did. I have not asked him."

"Don't worry. I'll be sure to have that conversation with him shortly."

Alice stands once again and heads for the door.

"Wait! Alice!"

Her hand on the doorknob, Alice hesitates.

"He's hurting so much... The madness... you've no idea!" Mirana sighs. "Alice, please don't hurt him more than he already has been."

And because Alice isn't sure she can keep that promise, she says nothing as she leaves the room.

She looks up the hall and down, but it's completely empty.

Alice's fury dies down just enough for a frisson of loneliness – of _lostness_ – to intrude. Conflicted, consternated, confused, Alice follows the hallways, turning at random, until she finds herself on a terrace lit by moonlight. She crosses the flagstones and leans against the railing. Studying the moonlit orchard in bloom below, Alice remembers wondering at this sight all those years ago on the eve of Frabjous Day. The Hatter had found her then. He'd been a friend to her then.

_"Alice, why is a raven like a writing desk?"_

_"Let me think about it..."_

Missing him, Alice sighs and buries her face in her folded arms. "What sort of place _cares_ for the promises people make each other?"

She'd always though the making and keeping of promises was the measure of someone's character. Of course, _she_ hadn't done all that well with _her_ promises. Alice knows she never should have promised to return to Underland so carelessly. But certainly, the consequences far outweigh the infraction!

"It's not fair," she whispers, feeling the hot rush of tears at long last.

Alice tries not to sniffle. On a ship with walls as thin as paper, sobbing would only lead to knowing looks from the crew and lips curled with disdain. Over the previous six months, Alice has gotten quite good at keeping her misery quiet. The lack of sobs forces out twice as many tears, but at least they are silent.

She looks out over the orchard as it weaves and wavers and blurs and she wonders, _How much of my misery was my own experience and how much of it was Fate's punishment for breaking my promise?_

And then, when she realizes that it doesn't matter, her heart breaks.

Indeed, none of that matters. She'd _missed_ Underland – she'd missed her friends and she'd missed the Hatter! – more than anything in the world. The excitement of her apprenticeship and first voyage had eclipsed her need to see him again, but only for a brief time. Alice knows she's always wanted to be here. But now...

_At the cost of thirty-seven lives, how can I just... carry on?_

It seems hopelessly callous for her to be _happy_ in the wake of their deaths. To be healthy and whole and content _because _the entire crew had died. All to bring her here.

If only she hadn't promised to return.

If only the queen hadn't promised not to bring her back to Underland.

If only...

Exhausted, Alice closes her eyes and curls her legs under her. She's nearly asleep when she feels someone strong gather her in their arms. She knows she ought, but she's too tired to fight their assistance, so tired...

Alice curls toward the solid warmth and breathes deeply. This scent... She frowns briefly as a memory tickles her gently before drifting beyond reach.

_I know you,_ she thinks and wraps her arms around the man's neck as she falls asleep.

* * *

Tarrant Hightopp stares at the girl – _Nae, the woman!_ – who has never called him by his given name. He wonders if she even knows it. Had he ever given it to her? If he has, she's never used it. And a name's meant to be used! (Otherwise no one would have one!)

A ray of sunlight slips through a break in the curtains, falling across Tarrant's hands where they rest on his knees. He should leave. He knows this. I would not do _at all _to be caught in Alice's bedroom, no matter how innocent his intentions. And his intentions have _not _been innocent at all.

_You let her make that promise on Frabjous Day. Accepted it._

He knows he should have refused. Until today, he has never regretted it.

_You never released her from her promise._

He'd been too afraid to cut that last thread between them that would have set her free – truly free – of Underland... and him. Instead, he'd attempted to compensate:

_You should not have tried to make amends by preventing the queen from bringing Alice back to Underland._

He tells himself he'd tried to give her a choice. But there'd been no choice after Alice had trapped herself with that promise. And he'd wanted her to keep it too much. Far, far too much. He'd panicked.

Tarrant Hightopp, for all his imagination and contorted wisdom, had not known what he would do if Alice _did _return only to leave him again. Like a child playing with a less-than-favorite toy.

He'd wanted – _needed! – _her to return _not _to Underland, but to _him!_

Tarrant shudders in his armchair in the sunlight. If he closes his eyes, he can smell what he's been missing: the scent of her hair and skin. When she'd ridden on his hat and then on his shoulder through Tulgey Wood, the breeze had blown her essence right under his nose. He vaguely remembers reciting the prophecy of the Jabberwocky slayer to her. He'd practiced several times during the quiet moments of the never-ending tea party in front of Thackery's house while the March Hare had been twitching in his sleep and Mallymkun had been dozing in her teacup. He'd been quite proud of his inflection and tone, making the prophecy into something more like a poem, a sonnet. But with Alice's scent filling him, he'd heard himself utter the prophecy in his rough, native brogue, had felt tension and something intense – _best not think about that! _– infuse him. Burn him from the inside out. If it hadn't been for her utter lack of muchness, he might have...

_No, no. I wouldn't have._

Of course not. Of course not.

Tarrant studies the woman bundled up in blankets on the bed and wonders how _much _muchness she's managed to hold onto. The sunlight is warm, but it doesn't stop the shiver that slips down his spine.

He wants to touch her, so he curls his fingers around the armrests of his chair. He wants to wake her, so he swallows back the words he would say. He wants to look into her eyes, so he closes his own. Fate save him, but he wants Alice too much to bear her presence.

A slight rustle from the bed reaches his ears and he tenses. Of course, as he isn't the slightest bit ready to face her, she awakens. Bloody Fate.

"Hatter?"

He swallows. "Tarrant Hightopp," he replies calmly, opening his eyes and looking directly into hers. Her hair is tangled again, her eyes glazed with drowsiness, her frown sleepy.

"Shall I call you Mr. Hightopp?" she wonders aloud.

Tarrant winces around that damnable stomach ache. He thought he'd lost it hours ago. "Whatever you prefer," he manages, despite the odd sensation rushing through his body. As if he's both _dying_ and _dying to move_ all at the same time.

_Call me by my name..._

Alice looks away and clears her throat. "I seem to remember drifting off on the balcony last night... Thank you for... Is this my room or...?"

Tarrant's hands curl around the armrests even tighter at the thought of watching her awaken in _his_ bed in _his _room...

_No! No, __**d'nae**_ _think it, lad!_

"Yours," he chokes out. "Or so Pondish croaked."

"Pondish? Oh, the frog in the waistcoat?"

"Perhaps." In all truth, it _might _have been Lakerton, not Pondish...

She nods, looking distracted. He watches as her expression changes. Bit by bit, he can see the memories assembling themselves. Bit by bit, a mulish expression settles over her face. "I'm really... irritated with you right now," she says, haughtily.

Tarrant blinks. "You... are... _irritated?_"

Alice looks at him, her eyes flashing with something much more _beyond_ irritation. Something much, much, much, much...

_Muchness,_ he muses, dismayed to feel his stomach ache pulse in response.

"No, actually," she replies flatly. "I'm furious. I'm absolutely furious! Why did no one _tell _me what could happen if I didn't come back soon enough? Was McTwisp too busy? Has Absolum lost the ability to speak with his new form? Would it have been too much of a bother for _**you**_ to at least _try_ to talk to me through a _bloody __**looking glass?**_"

Tarrant stares at her, shocked. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair tangled, her impassioned gaze focused completely and utterly on him...

_And the lass is still in bed, isn't she?_

He growls. "'Tis nonsensical teh think tha' broken promises hav'nae consequences!"

"There's a difference between _consequences_ and the hand of _Fate sinking my employer's ship and __**killing the entire crew!**_"

"Not the entire crew," he replies after a beat of silence.

Alice struggles to sit up, slipping twice as she attempts to unwind her arms from the mound of blankets. Tarrant muses that, perhaps, seven _might_ have been a bit excessive...

"No, _not _the entire crew," she agrees through her teeth. "After all, _I'm still alive,_ aren't I? The _only_ survivor! The reason for the wreck! _I'm the reason they all died! Me and that bloody __**promise! **_Do you think I _want _to be the cause of so many deaths? Do you think everything is _just fine_ _**just because I'm still here and they're NOT?**_"

Tarrant stares at her, at her tears. There are no sobs or hysterics in sight, but the tears drip from her eyes in steady rivulets. He briefly wonders when, where, and how Alice had learned to cry like an old woman.

"How—do I—live—with that?" she whispers.

Guilt. An ocean of guilt surrounds him. _He'd _done this. _He'd _held her fast and sure to her promise – a promise that had taken her ship, its crew and had very nearly taken _Alice_ as well!

Guilt, rage, terror... A hatter can only take so much!

Tarrant stands. Someone speaks in an Outlandish brogue: "If ye find that ye cannae _live wi'tha'_, ye know where th' lookin' glass is. I'm sure ye'll be able to find yer way back to yer ship easily enough."

In the utter and complete silence that follows, pressing in upon his ears like the salt water of the Upland ocean, Tarrant wonders if, in fact, _he'd _been the one to say those things. _Must have! No other Outlanders here..._

Shame...

Tarrant looks away from her face, pretends he doesn't see the pain there – he can deal with no more today! One more word, one more tear, and she will _break him!_ He clears his throat. "If you'll excuse me, I've left the queen's hats hanging for too long."

Grasping the front of his shirt, trying to stop the stomach ache from exploding – or maybe imploding from the weight of it all – Tarrant hurries from the room. He doesn't slam the door on his way out, but when he arrives in his workshop quite a few things get slammed about. And shouted at.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2: Scenes 3 & 4]


	7. Book 1, A Devastating Homecoming, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Two: A Devastating Homecoming **_[Scenes 5 & 6]

"Would you care for some tea, Alice?"

Alice looks up, startled out of her thoughts. "Oh, um, no. Thank you," she manages, trying very hard not to think of tea or tea parties or teapots or the scent of tea on a battered top hat...

The queen nods and smiles to the fish in the green waistcoat. "If you'll just leave the tea service, Algernon? Thank you."

The fish bows and slithers from the room, closing the door behind him.

The queen turns and flutters over to the settee facing the balcony and the cherry orchard beyond and takes a seat next to Alice. The White Queen doesn't ask Alice how she's feeling, and Alice is unbelievably grateful for that. It has been two days since she'd last seen the Hatter. Two days of sitting in her rooms, staring at the armchair he'd sat in. Two days spent soaking her borrowed nightgown sleeves and pillows, one tear at a time, salting herself in her own guilt. Today, she'd ventured to bathe and explore the castle. It hadn't taken as long as she'd hoped it would to find a familiar room: the queen's office. And, unfortunately, it had been occupied when she'd cracked open the door.

"We argued," Alice says.

"You...?"

"The Hatter and I."

The White Queen's eyebrows arch. "Tarrant raised his voice to you?"

"What? No, no." Alice sighs. "No, that might have been preferable."

The queen sighs. "Oh, botheration." For a moment, neither woman speaks. "Alice," Mirana tries reluctantly, "I can only imagine how difficult this is for you. But you must believe me when I say that... what happened was _not_ your fault."

"I didn't know."

"Exactly."

"I wasn't told, either." Alice winces. "Not that that excuses it. After all, I can't blame others for _my_ mistake. Unintentional though it had been." She sighs. "I blamed _him_ for it. For not telling me."

"I... see. The argument, you mean?"

"Yes," Alice says. "He told me..." She looks in the direction of the vanity mirror. "... if I wanted I could go right back to..."

"Oh, that _Outlander!_" The queen doesn't growl, but it's certainly a rather forceful sigh. "Alice, he doesn't mean it. Truly, he doesn't. Do you not think of how _he _feels about this? He's wanted to see you again for so long and now he learns what the price for that is... Don't you think he's _already_ blaming himself?"

Alice puts her head in her hands and bows under the wave of realization. "I'm horrid." And then: "It's been two days. I should have apologized ages ago. The instant I'd said it. I shouldn't have said it at all."

A soft hand rests on Alice's shoulder. "An apology is a wonderful idea."

"The sooner the better."

"Well..." the queen hesitates until Alice looks up. The concerned expression on Mirana's face stirs tendrils of worry in Alice.

"What is it?"

"Brillig," Mirana replies, turning away from the very fine, upstanding clock leaning against the far wall. "Four o'clock." She sighs. "And it's a Saturday."

Alice watches in puzzlement as the queen looks up and out at the balcony.

"What –?"

Her question is cut short by the sound of breaking glass above them. She looks up with a start as glass shards fall and tinkle against the balcony flagstones.

Alice only manages to gasp before a very thick brogue drowns her out.

"I TOLD YEH NAE TEH EAT TH' CUCUMBER SANDWICHES, ALICE!"

An instant later, a fully loaded tea table crashes to the balcony. Alice leaps up from her seat and rushes to the balcony doors.

"As I mentioned," the White Queen continues softly, "Brillig on Saturdays might _not_ be the best time for a... rational discussion."

"I don't understand. What has brillig on Saturdays anything to do with the fact that the Hatter has _tossed a table and tea service out a window?_"

The White Queen draws a deliberate breath. "You've always arrived on an Underland Saturday, Alice. And, as I mentioned, he's been hoping you would find your way back to us for... some time now."

"But he knows I'm here! Why wouldn't he just _invite_ me to tea?"

The queen smiles sadly. "Perhaps because his role has always been to wait for you and your role has always been to arrive."

Speechless, Alice stands just on this side of the threshold and gapes. For a long moment, neither Alice nor the queen say anything. A breeze plays with the gauzy curtains and rustles the cherry blossoms in the orchard below. It's in this moment of heavy silence and gentle susurration that Alice thinks she hears her name from somewhere above.

"... Alice...? We'll have fresh scones next Saturday. If you'll come. Will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you, won't you...? Alice...?"

She closes her eyes and leans against the wall. "I'm going to see him."

"All right," the queen replies serenely.

"Right now."

"Oh, well... I'm not really sure that would be for the best..."

Alice shakes her head and pushes away from the doorjamb. "This can't wait." She marches toward the door but pauses just before she opens it. "If you don't see me at dinner, send up the cavalry, won't you?"

* * *

Tarrant stands with his back to the open window, his hands fisted in his hair. He notices that it's gotten quite long. Almost as long as it had been that Horvendush Day when the Jabberwocky had... When the Red Queen had...

Perhaps he should cut it. He's too old to wear his hair so long. And too disinterested to make it presentable. Not that he ought to present himself for anyone. There's no one to see him, in any case. He's a milliner, not a courtier. No, there's no one to care for how he looks, so why bother with it at all?

_Alice..._

Tarrant turns smartly and sweeps an arm over his desk. He stares at the floor and the pair of shears lying on the rug.

"Hatter?"

Tarrant blinks and looks over his shoulder. He stares as someone who looks surprisingly just exactly completely utterly absolutely like – _but it can't be!_ – Alice standing in the doorway.

"I knocked," she says.

Tarrant gapes at the vision of her for a moment. Then, desperate for something to prove what he's seeing is reality, he casts his gaze about, taking in the broken bits of china, the tea dripping down the walls, the remnants of cucumber sandwiches that had been squashed beneath his boots and the occasional crumbling scone.

How odd. He's never imagined Alice visiting him _after_ he'd disposed of the tea things. He considers the possibility that this is some new scenario. Perhaps his mind has grown tired of the same delusion over and over and _over and over __**and**__..._

"Hatter?"

The feel of a hand against his cheek startles him again. He opens his eyes and looks down at that very, _very, __**very**_ familiar Alice-face. And no longer a doll-Alice, either. She's still the just-right-wonderfully-spectacularly-sized Alice!

"I'm fine," he manages in a husky whisper.

"I'm sorry," she replies.

He frowns. "I'm confused."

"I'm horrid."

He gapes.

She continues, with her gaze searching his face. "I never should have said that you're to blame for the ship sinking. I'm so sorry. I... I should have come back ages ago. Ages and ages ago. You see, I realized months ago that there was nothing left for me there. I was failing in my business, I missed y—Underland so much, and I was planning to go back down the rabbit hole at Lord Ascot's summer villa as soon as I got back and..." Alice closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. For all of it."

Tarrant marvels at the fact that her hand is still resting against his cheek – could she truly have forgiven him for being so utterly _slurvish?_ He dares not ask her. After all, _Alice_ _is touching him again!_ How long has he waited for this? How long has he tried not to notice how much he's wanted this? Knowing he should let her go, he lifts his own hand – bandaged, bruised, and be-thimbled – to trap her palm there against his face.

"I'm... devastated," he confesses to this vision. Her eyes fly open and her expression turns downward with worry. "I've never daydreamed you like this before. You should be smiling. I always imagine you smiling. And then there's tea. There's always tea. You know we've nearly always had tea when we first meet again on Saturdays. It's not quite a Saturday without tea, you know."

"Hatter?"

"That's not to say that one _must_ have tea every Saturday. One might indulge in coffee or chai on occasion, I suppose. Do you care much for coffee or chai, Alice? I wonder what you'll say. This is a daydream so, really, you might say anything. Isn't that right?"

"Hatter, this is not a daydream. I'm real. I'm really here." A wry grin tugs at her lips. "Just really late for tea, obviously." She raises her other hand and presses it against his other cheek. "Go on and look at me. I'm really here."

_Look?_ he thinks. _That won't do!_ Time and time again his mind and his eyes have fooled him into thinking she'd arrived for tea on Saturday. The feel of her hands is rather persuasive, but he's imagined the sound of her voice so often he can't trust her words. But he _would_ trust – undeniably, utterly, absolutely trust – one thing...

Alice's eyes widen as he leans forward and ducks his head over her shoulder. When the twisting tendrils of hair that have escaped the ribbon at the base of her neck are tickling his nose, he lets his eyelids drift shut and breathes deeply.

_Alice!_

He startles violently. The hand not engaged with hers fists as his side.

_Alice!_

Because her scent is such a miracle for what it represents – _Alice is here! In my rooms! She's arrived! _– he dares to savor it again. Alice stands perfectly still. He can see the slight motion of her pulse in her neck, beneath her ear. He can feel her breaths as they stir his hair. He can feel the heat of her still-trapped hand against his face. He blinks and smiles.

And then he notices just _how _close she is. _So close! _It would be the smallest of steps to close the distance between them and –!

_No! No! __**D'nae **__think it!_

Clearing his throat, Tarrant retreats a step and brings Alice's hand away from his cheek. He brushes her knuckles once with his thumb before forcing himself to release her hand. "Alice," he says in the smooth voice he's cultivated for use at court. "Of course it's you. Of course. I'd know you anywhere."

Her smile is tentative but her expression is relieved. Tarrant feels a stab of regret at disturbing her. He must _do better _at keeping his delusions under control!

She says, "You said that once before."

Tarrant grins. "Only once? I've said it twice, I'm sure."

"Or three times?"

He considers that. "It's possible."

"I believe it is."

And then she smiles. And it's a _real_ smile. There's a bit of crinkling at the corners of her eyes and a mirthful light in their depths and...

"Can you forgive me for what I said the other morning?"

Tarrant watches, alarmed, as her smile begins to fade. "To my memory, there is nothing you said that requires forgiveness."

And then, miracles of miracles, Alice reaches out to him _again_.

_**Again!**_

And takes his hand in hers. Tarrant thrills at the touch.

"I don't deserve a friend like you, Hatter."

The twinge of disappointment at the sound of his profession rather than his given name on her lips is eclipsed by the disquiet her statement causes. "And I don't deserve the tolerance and patience of _the_ Alice." He smiles for her. "I therefore recommend that we agree to not deserve each other and then ignore the fact entirely."

And there! Alice's smile returns!

A moment later, his own smile is so stretched with delight he feels his chest might actually burst the seams of his waistcoat. The strain distracts him and he finally notices that he's standing in the middle of his rather untidy parlor with nothing to offer Alice by way of refreshments!

_Why is that?_ he wonders.

And then a breeze rustles the curtains framing the broken window and he recalls the tea service and the tea table and...

_Oh, how embarrassing!_

"I'm afraid I can't offer you tea," Tarrant says with a sheepish glance toward the window. "Unless you'd like to have it on the balcony below..."

"Well... it _is _well after brillig," Alice replies. "What would you say to a stroll before dinner?"

"Along the battlements?"

"Are there any?"

"I've no idea. If there aren't, I'm sure we'll find them!"

She chuckles her breathless laugh and nods. Tarrant escorts her out the open door and past the line of footmen waiting to scrub down his room... again. He keeps his eyes on her, however, and his mind on the hand tucked into the crook of his arm, and tries not to dwell on the fact that this obnoxious stomach ache is becoming a chronic occurrence.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2]


	8. Book 1, Duties of the Champion, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Three: Duties of the Champion **_[Scene 1 of 5]

"Ah, so the Champion has returned..."

Alice startles at the cultured drawl. "Chessur?" she asks, turning in a circle, searching for a glimpse of him. She gasps when she completes the turn to see a pair of vibrant green eyes and an up-ended grin just inches in front of her nose.

"Still jumpy," he muses on a purr before swimming over to ogle the Hatter's top hat. "And hello again, sweet hat. Has your current master been treating you well?"

The Hatter sweeps his hat from his head before the Cheshire Cat can paw it. Alice bites a smile at the suspicious gleam in the Hatter's eyes.

"And how are you, Tarrant? Any luck with...?"

Alice's attention is redirected from the sound of hearing someone other than the queen say the Hatter's given name – he's always been "Hatter" to Alice! Despite the rare occasion of hearing his given name spoken aloud, Alice stares at Chessur's knowing grin and the slight flush to the Hatter's cheeks. Alice hadn't known the man _could _blush.

The Hatter clears his throat. "I've lost my head, of course. You can hardly expect less than that."

"That's true, if he'd lost his head, he would be less, wouldn't he?"

"Contrariwise, if he'd lost it and then some, then you'd expect him to've lost a bit more, wouldn't you?"

Alice smiles. "Hello, Tweedles."

"Is that Alice?"

"Well, if it weren't Alice, it couldn't be Alice could it?"

"But it is Alice, so it must be."

Alice nods as they waddle further into the queen's office. She notices their gazes flickering occasionally toward the Hatter who seems to be having a rather animated discussion with Chessur without the aid of his voice or hands. Teeth gleam, eyes glare, and brows wiggle in a way that _must_ be meaningful... at least to the two of them.

Alice hides another grin.

While the Tweedles argue over which chairs to sit in – "Well, if it were taken, it would be, but since it isn't, it ain't!" "Contrariwaise, if it weren't taken, we'd take it, and then it would be!" – Alice indulges in a Hatter-esque pastime: she daydreams. She recalls the past day-and-a-bit that she had spent keeping the Hatter company. The stroll preceding dinner through the misplaced battlements had lead them to the orchard, which had been lovely and quite interesting – "Honestly, Alice, the trees are _in bloom!_ You can't very well expect them to come up with fruit _as well_ when they're busy enough making flowers!" – and it had been fun to watch him work in his workshop on Sunday. She'd even learned a bit about the political relations between the queen's domain in Underland and the other territories, jointly called the Outlands.

"That's where my clan hailed from," the Hatter had commented. "We're a wandering people. Craftsmen, mostly. Travel where our skills take us." He'd added after snipping a thread and pinning a ribbon, "I'm called an Outlander here."

"And that's the language you speak sometimes? Outlandish?" she'd ventured.

"Aye, 'tis." With a smile, the Hatter's brogue had thickened to the consistency of a very hearty pea soup. "'F 'twere naught teh be kennin' aught i'twoul'nae be gratlin', nauw!"

Alice still isn't sure if she should be more disturbed by not being able to understand more than two words of it _or_ discovering that she'd liked the sound of it as much as she had.

"Ahoy, Alice!"

The greeting is punctuated by a stab to her ankle. "Ouch! Mally! What was that for?"

The dormouse glares. "What d'you think, you lump? Keepin' us waitin' for so long being the least of it!"

Alice follows Mally's guilty glance and finds the Hatter at the end of it, staring at the dormouse with a very intimidating scowl.

"Yes, I did do that," Alice replies, turning away from those unsettling eyes. "I'll do my best to be more careful with my promises in the future."

"Sounds a bit wishy-washy to me!"

"Mally! Leav'be!" Alice shivers at the Hatter's guttural Outland brogue.

"Good morning, everyone!"

At the queen's entrance, the Hatter slides into the chair next to Alice's and Mally scrambles up to stand over Chessur who has reclined himself in the chair on the far side of the Tweedles. Alice briefly wonders why they're avoiding each other before turning her attention to the queen.

"Thank you all so much for coming today," the White Queen begins. "I've an appointment with Fenruffle shortly so I hope this won't take long." She takes a determined breath. "Now, as you've all noticed, Alice has returned."

_"Finally,"_ Mally sniffs.

The Hatter flashes yet another glare in her direction.

"Yes, at long last," Mirana agrees pleasantly. "Now that my Champion is in residence, there are certain expectations of the public that must be addressed."

Turning to Alice, the queen continues, "Do not think for a moment that you will have to accept these responsibilities, Alice. They're quite antiquated as the last Queen's Champion lived and died... well, let's just say it's been quite a while since there's been a Queen's Champion, shall we?"

Alice nods. She notices that, in the chair beside hers, the Hatter's hand is rather forcibly gripping his armrest. "I understand. I think," Alice replies.

"Excellent! Now, to the heart of the matter: As I've yet to be married and I have a Champion now to defend my, er, honor, it'll be expected that any male of established lineage or reputation will be welcome to participate in the Wooing Rites to petition my hand in marriage."

Alice closes her eyes briefly and tries to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach. "The Wooing Rites?" she asks, trying to hide her deep, _deep_ reluctance for learning something she's relatively sure she doesn't want to know.

"Ah, yes. Perhaps this is another thing Upland does not share with Underland. Well, as it so happens, a queen of marriageable age is quite eligible to receive suitors. Of course, she does not have to accept any of them."

"Unless they happen to kill the Queen's Champion, of course," Chessur drawls and consequently receives a burning yellow stare from the Hatter.

"Excuse me?" Alice manages, keeping an eye on the byplay.

"Don't worry, Alice," the queen assures her. "It's very, very poor form to kill the Queen's Champion. And, with the current political climate it _won't_ be an issue. To put it bluntly, my role in the Wooing Rites is to smile and placate my suitors until – or _if – _I choose one of them. My Champion's role will be to interview them and determine their suitability and sincerity."

"Interview?" Alice confirms. That doesn't sound so bad, but, next to her, the Hatter has still not relaxed one whit.

Mally snorts.

The queen clears her throat delicately. "Ah, yes, that's part of it. After the interview, you'll be required to duel the candidate."

"Duel? As in hand-to-hand combat?"

"More like sword-to-sword combat," Tweedledee explains.

"Unless the fellow's a mind to be a bit more practical with his demonstration, then it'd be an anything-you-can-throw-stab-poke-or-choke against an, er, well..." Tweedledum subsides under another furious glare from the Hatter.

Alice takes a deep breath. "All right, let me see if I'm understanding this correctly: I'll interview and fight – with real weapons! – against your suitors, who _shouldn't _try to kill me because it's bad manners?"

"More or less," Chessur replies with a grin.

Alice ignores the Hatter's reaction this time and directs her gaze to the queen. "Is it more or less, Your Majesty?"

Mirana nods, acknowledging her concerns. "You will do your best to determine the suitor's intentions toward me through interviews. You'll then provide him with the means to demonstrate his skills in dueling. After all, _my _vows do not permit me to harm _any_ living creature so I am not able to defend myself. The future king will have that responsibility. The suitors will be eager to show their skills in combat to impress both my court and myself."

"And they're not going to toss me down and run me through because...?"

The queen winces at the imagery. Beside her, Alice thinks she sees the Hatter's face twitch into a brief but furious grimace.

"It's true, _if _a suitor defeated you, I would be forced to marry him. However, as I said, there's no reason for him to kill you as his primary goal will be to make a good impression upon me and killing or severely injuring my Champion would not further that goal. So he'll show off a bit and then, graciously, let you finish it."

"I see..." Alice muses. Glancing around at the assembled creatures and people, she asks, "If it's _my_ decision to accept this responsibility or not, then why are so many attending our meeting?"

"If you decide to do it, then you'll need some training, won't you?" Tweedledee says.

"Contrariwise, if you don't, then you won't but we'll've gotten a rather nice tea out of it," Tweedledum replies.

Alice stares at the assembled Underlandians: Mallymkun, Chessur, the Tweedles, the Hatter... "_All of you_ would be teaching me how to fight?"

"You've got it now," Chessur announces. "So what do you say?"

Alice can see how eager and interested everyone is in her response. Well, everyone except the Hatter who is glaring furiously at the floor. He might be mad, but Alice agrees with Mirana about him: the Hatter _does_ see things much more clearly than most. If he has found a reason to be anxious, Alice ought to be very, very careful.

"Your Majesty, why can't I use the Vorpal Sword? Absolum told me it knows what it wants. Surely...?"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible, Alice. The sword only responds to the Jabberwocky. If it's put to any other use, it will shatter."

"Oh. A bit tetchy, isn't it?" Alice mutters.

Mally giggles madly. Chessur grins. The Tweedles elbow each other. The Hatter does nothing.

Alice hesitates. "If I have to make a decision right _now_..."

"You don't," the queen assures her, no doubt sensing Alice's refusal. "If you'd like a few days to consider it..."

"Actually, I'll _need_ a few days, and _a lot_ of help, to even see if I have _any _talent at all with the sword."

"And knife and garrote and staff and spear and..." Mally's list dies incomplete when the Hatter _growls_ at her.

"Ah, right," Alice says, fisting her hand to keep from reaching out to touch the Hatter's arm. That sort of public display would not be appropriate in this venue. Especially if the Hatter is to become one of her instructors.

Addressing the queen, Alice replies, "If Mally, Chessur, the Tweedles, and the Hatter have time this week to tutor me in... trouncing someone, then I'll have a better idea of what I'm capable. By next week, I should have an answer for you, Your Majesty."

Mirana smiles brilliantly. "Fantastic! By Monday, then? I look forward to your reports, everyone, and Alice, I shall look forward to your answer. Now," the queen says with a worried glance at the clock, "I'm afraid I have a meeting with Fenruffle. If you'll excuse me..."

As the group files out of the Royal Office and a very grumpy-looking gryphon stomps in, Mally gives Alice another poke in the ankle with her hatpin sword. "So, when are we getting started?"

Alice glances at the Hatter – the tense, silent, fist-curling, glare-hurling Hatter – and says, "After lunch let's meet in the courtyard. Chessur, could you find a location that will allow for ease of movement and doesn't present too many breakables?"

"My pleasure." The cat disappears on his quest.

"Mally, Tweedles, why don't you go ahead and start lunch? I... that is, I'd like to have a word with Hatter. In private."

"Sure." / "Of course." The Tweedles shrug and head for the brunch room.

Mally giggles and follows them, lunging and jabbing at shadows with enthusiasm.

"Alice?"

She turns and takes in the tumultuous swirl of colors in the Hatter's eyes: fierce yellow and pale, pale green and even a hint of burning orange. Alice takes his arm and steers him toward the nearest available room.

"It looks as though you're of as many minds about this as I am," she observes wryly, closing the door behind them.

The Hatter ignores the sofa and chairs in the very lovely parlor and beseeches, "Don't agree to this."

"If I don't what will happen to the queen, to Underland?"

He hesitates, his eyes turning a lovely shade of deep green. He shakes his head and that washed-out olive reemerges. "No, please, Alice. Don't do this."

"I haven't agreed," she reminds him softly.

"Don't!" he nearly shouts, stepping in front of her, placing his work-roughened hands on her arms. "Don't..."

"Hatter," she says, reaching up to grasp his elbows. "In my world, I was a business woman. And I was _horrid_ at it. At least in the practical aspects. In Underland, what will I do with my life? Who will I be?"

The Hatter smiles. "You'll be Alice, of course."

"As natural as that sounds, being _Alice_ is not a career."

He stares at her, his eyes so pale they're almost white.

"I need to find out if I can do this. And I need your help. Please."

He shakes his head. "Nae, nae..."

"Hatter!" Alice places a hand on his cheek again, drawing him out of his churning emotions and the siren call of madness. "I need you to be rational right now."

He nods and takes a deep breath. "Yes, yes. Rational. Regrettably rational."

Alice appreciates the attempt at humor, no matter how truthful the comment had been. His hands drop from her arms.

"I took up the Vorpal Sword," she tells him. "Isn't that another kind of promise?"

"The queen will release you if you ask her."

Alice hesitates. "I'm not sure I want to do that. I'm not sure what I want." She closes her eyes and sighs, trying to organize her thoughts. "I want to try this, though. If only to eliminate it from my future career choices."

When she opens her eyes, the Hatter's green eyes are studying her very closely. "Don't consider it, Alice. Ask to be released. There's time for..."

"I _want_ to do this," she interrupts, surprised at the intensity of her desire. "I'm _going _to do it. Try, at least." She gives him a long, level look. "Will you help me?"

Tarrant's expression tightens with unhappiness. A moment later, he nods with visible reluctance.

Alice addresses that resistance directly: "If you help me do this, you can_not_ be gentle with me. I need to know _exactly_ what I'll be facing. I'm pretty sure Mally won't hold back, but I think you'll agree that she and I are not very evenly matched. The Tweedles seem... a bit easy to fool," she admits tactfully. "And Chessur is not a typical opponent. I'll need you to test me. You're a man and I'll be fighting men. You know how to fight – I saw you during the battle. I need to know what you know."

His hands return to her arms and hold on tightly. Above her, the Hatter's eyes fluctuate between a rich blue-green to fearsome yellow and back again with an occasional glimpse of that sickly paleness. "You don't know what you're asking..."

"I know I don't," Alice agrees, wondering why this is so hard for him. "But I'm asking you to push me as hard as you can this week so that, at the end of it, if I survive..." She adds that last bit in a droll tone. "... I can give the queen my answer. Whatever it is."

Alice feels a chill unfurl through her as something... _calculating_ flashes in his eyes. "Push you hard?" he repeats in a considering tone, his brogue softening and darkening the words. "Aye, that I'll do, Alice. _That_ I'll do."

* * *

[End of Chapter 3: Scene 1]


	9. Book 1, Duties of the Champion, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Three: Duties of the Champion **_[Scenes 2 & 3 of 5]

"More your feet!" Mally screeches.

Alice forces herself to jog a few steps backward and to the side. The Hatter follows her.

"Keep your head up!" Chessur reminds her lazily.

Alice feels her body jerk roughly as she counters blow after blow from the staff the Hatter is wielding today. On the first day of her training, the Tweedles and the Hatter had taken turns knocking her down and Mally and Chessur had joined the festivities by tripping her at every available opportunity. Apparently, after four hours of colliding with the courtyard croquet pitch, Alice had managed to figure out how to roll with the blows and come up on her feet.

Today, they'd moved on to using staffs. She'd gotten the basics down with the Tweedles as the Hatter had adjusted her stance, the positioning of her hands and grip, her posture. She'd never been poked and prodded so much in her entire life let alone in a single morning, let alone by a man. If it hadn't been for the fierce yellow-green of his eyes, Alice doubts she would have managed to keep the blush off of her face at all.

She'd done all right with the Tweedles, but now, after lunch and a break, the Hatter – stripped down to his trousers and shirtsleeves – had taken up the second staff. And he is pushing her just as he'd promised he would: _hard._

Alice mistakenly drops her guard and the Hatter shoves the end of the staff into her stomach, winding her. She keeps her own staff up, though, and manages to counter an upward blow in the direction of her chin. She follows through with pair of rather predictable blows – a right and a left – then pivots smartly on her heal and manages a strike against his shoulder then forces her bruised body to roll under his staff as it whistles through the air and gets a good whack at his ankle.

"_Bloody bulloghin' brangergain!_" he barks.

Getting to her feet, Alice stumbles toward him, fight forgotten. "I'm sorry! Are you all –"

The flash of a grin is the harbinger of the attack: the Hatter grabs her staff, twists her body around, taking advantage of her poor balance, and pulls her back against his chest, her hands are trapped by his arms and the staff pressing her back against him.

"_Never_, take pity on yer opponent," he rumbles in her ear.

Mute and trying to suppress a series of very distracting shivers, Alice nods.

"Now, I've got ye. What are ye gonna do abou' it?"

Sending a silent apology at him, Alice lifts her leg and scrapes the edge of her shoe down his trouser-clad shin.

The Hatter yelps and Alice twists out of his grasp, scoops up her dropped staff, and, turning, strikes at the back of his opposite knee. He doesn't go down, but it buckles enough for her to charge his back and knock him forward onto the ground. The tackle is far from graceful. Alice keeps her staff across his shoulders and her weight on his upper thighs. She tries not to think too much about the exact position she's in. _Oh, what her mother would have to say about this!_

"Good," the Hatter says, his voice strained. "But put the staff a bit lower. Yes, there. There's a pressure point there."

Alice nods, examining the location of staff against his back. "I'll remember."

He nods and pants against the grass.

"Break?" she checks, unwilling to be attacked the minute she picks herself up.

"Aye, break."

Alice rolls away as gently as possible and reaches out to help him sit up. "Let me check your leg." He doesn't protest as she reaches for his dirt-covered and grass-stained trouser leg and lifts it. She winces at the raw skin on his shin.

"Hatter... I'm so sorry."

He cocks his head and regards the injury with an objective expression. "You did well. Nothing to apologize for."

Of course, that just makes Alice feel worse.

"Here, this should ease your conscience," Chessur says, materializing at Alice's side.

She takes the jar from him and applies some of the paste to the bruising scrape.

"Your form's pretty good," Mally tells the Hatter. "I didn't know you knew how to fight with staffs."

"And yet you let me coach it?" he asks wryly.

Mally shrugs. "I know swords and knives. What was I going to say about a stick that's not even sharp?"

"Ignorance has never stopped you before."

"Humph!"

Alice watches Mally march off, tail high. She notices the Tweedles and Chessur off near the castle wall, raiding the refreshment table. Turning back to the Hatter, she catches his wince as he gently folds his trouser leg down over the developing bruise and scraped skin.

"Are you really all right?" she asks. "I shouldn't have..."

The Hatter raises a hand and presses a knuckle against her lips. "You should have and you did. You don't get many second chances in a fight. You do what you have to in order to win."

Alice blinks as he lowers his hand. His gaze is slightly unfocused as he studies her face. "You really think these suitors will try to kill me?"

"I don't know," he replies, his eyes snapping into focus and Alice sees the color of fear in them: that washed-out green.

Alice wants to ask him if he still thinks she should refuse, but she doesn't. She doubts he's changed his opinion. Alice draws her ankles close and wraps her aching arms around her trouser-clad legs. "Thank you." When the Hatter looks up at her with a questioning expression, she explains, "For the honesty. For not holding back."

His gaze gentles to a verdant green. "Just don't forget to do the same. You fight as hard as you must to win. No less. Never any less."

She smiles. Nodding once, she assures him, "I won't."

After the words have left her mouth and the Hatter relaxes, Alice realizes that she'd just made him yet another promise. The third one so far. Not that she's counting...

* * *

Using swords had been... interesting. A bit painful despite the fact that they'd been dull and made of wood. Short staffs, actually. Mally had been especially bossy and Alice had jumped to obey just to keep her from screaming. She wonders glumly if anyone had appreciated her efforts.

And, true to his word, the Hatter had _not _been gentle with her. With his extra upper body strength, he had disarmed her nine times out of ten.

"How in the name of Fate did you manage to hold on to the Vorpal Sword long enough to behead the Jabberwocky?" Chessur had wondered aloud, looking flabbergasted.

The Hatter had shouted at him in Outlandish but Chessur had already achieved his objective: when Alice and the Hatter had squared off for the next bout, she'd been beyond mad. She'd been _enraged_. Of course, she'd been mad at herself, but the fire in her blood had worked just as well on the Hatter. It had been the one and only time she'd managed to disarm him, knock him down, and put the wooden "blade" to his throat without giving him time to regroup.

"That's my Alice," he'd whispered up at her with a smile.

If Mally and Chessur hadn't been hovering within earshot, Alice might have happily agreed with him in that moment.

On the morning of the fourth day – Thursday and a much-needed holiday – Alice sleeps late, takes a hot bath, spends an hour stretching, then goes to find the Hatter. She stops by his workshop with some things in a basket for lunch and finds him busily forming, trimming, pinning, sewing, and weaving. The man's hands move so fast it seems as if he is doing all of it at once. Alice leans in the doorway, content to watch him until he notices her. For two or three minutes, she tries to find a rhythm in his movements, but fails. But then an undoubtedly _bad _idea occurs to her.

Sliding the basket of bread, cheese, and fruit behind the full-length mirror next to the door, Alice slips into the room and, keeping low, circles around as best she can.

_Don't do it, Alice!_

She wipes her perspiring palms on her trousers.

_He'd be disappointed if I didn't._

Alice bites her lip.

_He'll be furious!_

She tracks his movements intently.

_Or he might not..._

Crouching under his workbench, Alice pulls a cheese knife from her belt and slips it between her teeth. When the Hatter turns and scoops a bolt of fabric in each hand, she strikes. Alice grabs his ankles and pulls with all her might. The Hatter falls and the bolts of fabric unravel in the air. Alice moves fast and grabs the back of his head with one hand before it strikes the thin rug even as she presses the cheese knife to his throat and tries not to wince when her bruised knees smash into the floor.

The Hatter blinks up at her, clearly startled.

"Did I surprise you?" Alice asks, in a disbelieving tone. _She'd certainly surprised _**herself!**

The Hatter grins. "I believe you did. What an inspired attack!"

"Was it any good?"

He considers her. "You're starting knives tomorrow." He glances down at the cheese knife.

"And wrestling the day after that," she agrees. With a shrug, she cheekily admits, "Maybe I just wanted a short introduction before –"

Alice squeaks as the Hatter grins wickedly and twists. With a single sinewy motion, he's pulled the cheese knife away from his throat and has flattened her on the floor.

"A short introduction?" the Hatter murmurs, his blue-green eyes sweeping over her like a touch. "A short introduction in what exactly?"

Alice struggles to keep her breathing regular but she can hear her pulse pounding madly in her ears, she can feel it in her chest. Confused, overwhelmed, trapped in his undivided attention, she rasps out the first thing that comes to mind: "What... are you qualified to teach, exactly?"

* * *

[End of Chapter 3: Scenes 2 & 3]


	10. Book 1, Duties of the Champion, 3 of 3

I'd like to say a quick "thank you" to everyone who has left a review! I _do_ read the reviews and I really appreciate the fact that some of you wonderful readers have taken the time to leave them for me!

* * *

**_Chapter Three: Duties of the Champion_** [Scenes 4 & 5 of 5]

Tarrant luxuriates in the feel of her – _his Alice!_ – against him. He forgets that they're on the floor of his workshop. He sees nothing other than her. Feels nothing other than her. With each breath, she presses against him. And with each instant of contact, his blood zings faster and hotter through his veins.

"What," she pants, "are you qualified to teach, exactly?"

The sheer number and variety of options overcome him. For a moment, he has to close his eyes, wary of what colors they might show. His lips curve into a small smile.

"Distraction," he whispers, choosing the least damning of his available choices. He leans toward her. He dares not kiss her. He dares not touch her any more deliberately than he already is. He leans down and opens his eyes as his face descends toward her neck, her scent. He inhales deeply until his lungs scream from the expansion.

"Alice... why aren't you fighting back? You promised you would."

She gasps softly beneath him. "It's a holiday," she manages. She sounds dazed, lost, utterly flunderwhapped.

"But you promised."

"Don't make me bite you, Hatter; I might draw blood."

"You're soft," he tells her, enjoying the dual meaning of the words.

She struggles weakly to pull her wrists from his grasp before admitting with defeat, "Everyone has a weak spot."

"And have you found it?" he asks against her neck. Her skin is so close, so very, very close. It would take but a thought to press his lips there, to taste her with the tip of his tongue.

_No! Mustn't!_

Of course not. Of course not. But it's only polite to wait for her answer, isn't it?

"It's becoming clearer," she finally says.

He wants to demand that she say his name before he'll release her. _Oh, what he would give to hear his name spoken in her breathless voice...!_ But no. _**No.**_

He leans back, in control now that there's a bit of distance between them and he can breathe non-Alice-scented air. Opening his eyes, he regards her. "Even pinned, you have weapons. Your teeth. Bite his neck, here." He shifts away from her until he's sitting on his knees and draws a finger down his neck along the body's major artery. "Or his ear, there's another pressure point here." He lifts his hair out of the way and points. "You sink your teeth into him and _don't let go._"

Alice sits up, bracing herself on her hands, and nods. "All right."

Tarrant grins at her, delighted with her sign of trust. There's no blushing, no scrambling up to her feet, no brushing off of hands. She meets his gaze directly and holds it without flinching. He can't remember the last time someone had done that in so... intimate a setting.

"Hatter?" she asks, still watching him intently.

"Yes, Alice?"

"Your eyes... they're blue."

Tarrant tilts his head to the side considering her statement-that-is-a-question. So she wants to know what he's feeling...? He replies, "I've been considering words that start with the letter M..."

"Munificent?" Alice guesses after a pause.

Tarrant smiles. "That is an excellent word, Alice! I shall have to keep that in Mind!"

"But it wasn't the one you were thinking of."

"No, it wasn't."

Alice smiles. "Your eyes are still blue."

"Moonstruck," he admits. He shares a smile with her for another moment and only one more moment, he then stands and helps her to her feet.

"I think we've lost the cheese knife," she observes without bothering to look at the floor.

"Then I suggest we break cheese and cut the bread," he replies, holding up a pair of shears.

They do.

* * *

Tarrant tries his best not to think about having Alice beneath him on the floor of his workshop... or at any other venue. He also tries not to think about the fact that she could make the deeply disturbing decision to accept _all _of her responsibilities as the Queen's Champion and agree to fight whatever block-headed, _heavy-handed, slithy-shrifty __**greizin'-grommer**_ that gets it into his head to try for the queen's hand.

Alice had asked him to push her. To show her what it would be like when faced with a foe, when faced with the loss of one's own life. She'd asked for this treatment. And Tarrant has to continually remind himself of it.

He tells himself that if he's harsh enough, cruel enough, it'll convince her to turn away from her role as Champion. He tells himself that when the Trial of Threes arrives, it won't matter.

_It doesn't have to be her._

Tarrant holds onto these thoughts ruthlessly. At least until he's pinned to the turf with Alice's soft body pressing down against him.

"Good," he tells her – and, oddly enough, _means _it! – as she draws the short, wooden mock-knife blade across the side of his neck in a motion that would sever the blood vessels he'd told her about. "And the bones of the neck?" he prompts.

He feels her weight shift slightly and her inner thighs press against back and sides. He closes his eyes and tries to focus on the dig of the wooden blade just _there_ in the back of his neck. "Good," he repeats, stifling a moan.

"Break?" she asks, a bit breathlessly.

"Aye. Break."

As usual, she tumbles off of him with a whisper of sound. Tarrant grins as he rolls over in the grass and considers the fact that she's very careful of how she touches him when they are _not _trying to... what had been the word she'd used?... ah, yes: trounce! Alice is _unfailingly_ careful of how she touches him when each is not trying to trounce the other. Well, except for...

_**D'nae**_ _think about yesterday morning!_

Tarrant sighs as he helplessly remembers.

"Hatter?"

He closes his eyes briefly, listening to the Tweedles and Chessur and Mally bicker and bet over by the plates of mint puffs and cheese candles. Opening his eyes, Tarrant looks up at the sky, the deep, summer blue and wonders if his eyes had been this color yesterday.

"Are you all right?"

She always asks him that. Even when he's sure he must have injured _her_ and not the other way around.

"Nae," he says. Before she can scramble to her feet and go fetch the bruise ointment, he says, "D'nae accept this." Tarrant clears his throat and struggles for calm. "Don't continue the tradition of the Queen's Champion."

"Because I'm no good at it?"

Her droll tone bothers him. He frowns. "Because you'll never know peace. Because even in times of peace, you'll have to do this. Day after day. Once you step on this path, there will be no leaving it."

Alice is silent for a long moment. "Where did you learn to fight?"

"Most of it I learned from my Fa. Then I relearned it after that Horvendush Day." He's thankful Alice doesn't ask _which_ Horvendush Day.

Again, another moment of silence passes. "You've been alone since then?"

"A Hatter, alone with his hats, passes customers by attracting Time." He giggles. "Have I made a rhyme?"

"It's lovely," Alice says. After a moment, she sits up and glances at their comrades near the punch decanter. "I'll chase Chess around for a bit this afternoon. Maybe I'll put a mint puff on the end of my 'knife' and try to stick it in his ear."

Tarrant grins at the thought. "I'd like to stay to hear that."

Alice blinks at him. "You don't have any hats to finish today?"

"Several." But he makes no move to get up and leave.

Tarrant stares at the sky and remembers watching Alice getting tossed around by the Jabberwocky three years ago. He hadn't been able to save her then. He'd tried, though, despite the fact that the Oraculum had predicted it would be _her_ to fight the Jabberwocky. Tarrant hadn't truly dared to defy that document; his one pathetic attempt to volunteer in her stead attests to that! And then she'd nearly gotten herself squished in the first thirty seconds of the fight! If he hadn't intervened... Tarrant tries not to finish that thought. Instead, he prays she is smart enough to avoid the opportunity the queen is offering her.

"The battle's long over," he says. And, if he's completely honest with himself, he never should have – _no one_ should have – asked Alice to fight the Jabberwocky that first time at all. Tarrant knows he'd been desperate for the resistance to make its move. He'd been blood-thirsty and more than half-mad with the need for vengeance. He would have done _anything_ to ensure his turn on the battlefield. And, to his everlasting shame, he had even manipulated Alice into becoming the Queen's Champion. In his blind thirst for battle, he'd offered up Alice!

_His Alice!_

Although... she hadn't been _his_ at the time. And, quite frankly, he's not sure if she's _his_ now. But, one day, perhaps... if possible... she _might be_. And the anticipation and uncertainty is a heady combination.

_If you asked, she might be your Alice, you know._

No, Tarrant doesn't know.

_It could be so easy..._

No, no it wouldn't.

_There's the Thrice a-Vow... Remember?_

He does. Tarrant shakes his head. No, no he won't do that. He wouldn't. Couldn't.

"Hatter?"

Again, that hand against his jaw pulls him from his disturbing thoughts. He clears his throat. "I'm fine."

He opens his eyes to see Alice leaning over him, her expression pensive. "And your foot?"

Tarrant giggles. "You're rather good at crushing toes, aren't you?"

"It's my specialty." She smiles.

Tarrant likes her smile. He'd like to see it every hour of every day, if possible. And it _would_ be possible if she'd only decide to _stay_ in Underland.

_She might stay if she were Queen's Champion again..._

Yes, that's one option...

_She'll be killed if she stays the Queen's Champion. The Trial of Threes..._

Tarrant knows he should tell her to go back. Leave all of them to their fate. They've survived before; they will again.

_Live, Alice._

_Stay, Alice._

The thoughts are contrary. He shouldn't be dwelling on them, inviting the madness. He's not sure what he would do if the madness came upon him now, with her so close, with his need so desperate, with the others so far away...

Sometimes, Tarrant frightens himself.

Alice's thumb caresses his cheekbone and Tarrant opens his eyes. When had he closed them? He's not sure.

"You're fine?" she checks.

He smiles. "Yes, and I'm ready to see you convince Chessur's ear to chew a mint puff."

Alice returns his grin. "Then I suggest you make yourself comfortable. This might take a while." She stands, scoops up her wooden knife and calls, "Chess! Tweedles! Mally! Have you finished off all the mint puffs already?"

Tarrant leans against a tree trunk and folds his hands over his middle. Yes, he'll watch. Yes, he'll wait. And yes, he'll find a way to keep her. Somehow.

Although whether he'll be keeping her safe or keeping her with him, he's not sure.

* * *

[End of Chapter 3]


	11. Book 1, Thrice a Vow, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Four: Thrice a-Vow**_ [Scene 1 of 4]

The mint puff ends up not in Chessur's ear, but stuck to the underside of his chin, like a frothy green beard. Alice had _very_ much enjoyed his consternated glare and the Hatter's insane giggles. Chess had vanished in a fit of pique and the puff had dropped to the lawn with a soft _splat!_ And then Alice had raced over to the Hatter to pat his cheek and remind him to breathe.

It's difficult for Alice to summon up the energy to wrestle the next day. She knows it's an important skill. She'll need to know how to outmaneuver an opponent even when she's pinned down. Again, she's paired with the Hatter as none of the others are large enough to present much of a challenge.

"Right," the Hatter says brusquely, shedding his coat and top hat. "Let's start."

"Ahem," Chessur gently interrupts. "You seem to be favoring your left side a bit. You know I could..."

"_No!_" The Hatter clears his throat. "I'm fine."

Alice hesitates. She _had_ been noticing his reluctance to use his left arm to its fullest. "Is it your shoulder or your ribs?" she asks, glancing about for the medicinal paste that's become her constant companion this past week.

"Neither. I'm fine."

"Then why is Chessur trying to... Actually, what _are_ you trying to do exactly, Chess?"

The Cheshire Cat shrugs. "Merely take Tarrant's place in your fight. He needs a rest."

Mally giggles. "Oh, I never thought I'd hear you volunteer yourself for a hair-pulling, toe-stomping, hand-biting free-for-all!"

"Indeed," Alice agrees, startled. If Chessur – snobbish, selfish, self-obsessed creature that he is – is offering to roll around in the dirt and grass in the Hatter's place, there must be _something _wrong. She glances at the Hatter. "Perhaps we should just save this for another day..."

"No need to do that!" Tweedledee insists.

"Right! Just sit this one out, Hatter," Tweedledum says.

Alice watches his lips pull back over his teeth in hostile response. Eager to make peace now, Alice says, "Let's just take the rest of the day off..."

"But the queen's expecting your answer the day after tomorrow!" Mally interjects.

Alice winces.

"She do'snae have teh agree teh _anythin'_ 'afore'r _after_ Monday," the Hatter snarls.

But Alice wants this decided. She wants to make a choice, once and for all, and stick to it. Wandering aimlessly around the castle indefinitely is _not_ something she's looking forward to. She sighs, "Hatter, just let me take a look at you before we decide to continue."

It's a reasonable request.

So, naturally, he refuses.

"I'm fine."

Alice grits her teeth.

"Alice, if I might be so bold as to ask why you've declined my services?"

She turns to address Chessur. "Well, frankly, your evaporating qualities –"

"Will not interfere. I give you my word."

Alice blinks, surprised that he'd promise that despite the damage she could do to him. "And, then there's your... size. I don't think I'll be fighting any cat-sized suitors, so..."

"Oh, but Chessur can change his size!" a Tweedle announces.

"That and more!" the other interjects. "Didn't he tell you how the Hatter and Mally escaped execution?"

"Oh, um," Alice struggles to remember. She'd been so glad to see him in one piece, she hadn't really focused on the details. She looks at the Hatter. "You said something about disrupting the peace and stirring up the anti-big head sentiment, I think."

"Trust you to leave out my heroic contribution," Chessur sighs in disappointment.

"Chessur disguised his-self as the Hatter," Mally explains.

Alice regards the Cheshire Cat with eyes that must be comically wide. "You can _do_ that?"

"Oh, yes. Well enough to fool even the executioner. I _am _a shape-shifter, you know."

"I didn't. I just though it was the evaporating qualities you'd mentioned."

He grins. "As Tweedledum has pointed out, I _do_ do that... and more. With your permission, Alice?"

"It's not _necessary!_" the Hatter insists. "I. Am. _Fine._"

Alice whirls on him. "If you are then you won't have a problem unbuttoning your shirt and giving us a look at your left side, then will you?"

His hand reaches for the first button, but rather than open it, he clutches it in a tight fist. "I'm fine."

Making a decision, Alice turns toward her other tutors. "Can you become anyone, Chess?"

"Well, yes, but it takes quite a bit of time to learn the shape..."

"So, it'd be easier to choose someone you've already been."

"Quite."

"And how many shapes do you know?"

"Well, this one, of course. And Tarrant's..."

Alice waits. When it becomes clear that those are her only two options, she gapes. "You've never learned anyone else's shape?"

"Well, as you said, with my evaporation skills, where would be the need?"

"I see." Alice looks from the Hatter to the Cheshire Cat and back again. She closes her eyes and sighs. "I accept your offer Chess."

"Excellent!"

An inarticulate growl is the Hatter's response. An instant later, he's standing so close to her she can feel the heat of his temper. She opens her eyes and is slightly surprised that the others have given her and the Hatter a bit of space. Having never seen Chessur transform into anything other than air and cat, the Tweedles and Mally are quite engrossed on the slow morphing taking place in the clearing.

"Alice..."

"Hatter," she replies, turning to face him.

"You asked _me _to do this."

"Yes, I did." She reaches out a hand to him and touches his left elbow. "And I've injured you. That's inexcusable." She studies his face as she moves her hand along his arm then up to his shoulder. "Show me where it hurts the worst."

"Hurts the best," he corrects her, shortly. "If it hurt worse, it wouldn't be much of a hurt, would it?"

"I suppose not." Her hand drifts over his shoulder and down the left side of his chest. He stands there in silence and bears the examination. Alice wonders at her own actions. A week ago she never would have imagined touching the Hatter – or any man, for that matter – with so little regard for propriety. But she'd been spread eagle on the ground under this man more times than she can count over the last few days. And she'd had him on his stomach, pushing his hips down, pinning his back to the pitch. She'd had her arms around his neck in a headlock and her legs around his chest to keep him from using any leverage against her. She's... well, if not for the clothes... she's been intimate with the man. Practically.

When Alice's fingers probe along one of his ribs, he draws a sharp breath. Exploring the area, she maps out an area the size of her knee. A wave of remorse floods her. "I did this yesterday." She vaguely remembers striking him right about here with her knee to knock him off of her when he'd tried to grab her knife. In the end, she'd twisted his arm behind his back and managed to pin him to the pitch. She'd thought it had ended a bit too easily. Now she knows why.

Alice lifts her gaze to his. It disconcerts her to find that his brilliant green eyes are watching her intently. "I'm sorry."

He doesn't reply as she starts working on his shirt. She doesn't open every button, just the four that will give her enough room to see the bruise. Alice looks down and squeezes her eyes shut. "It looks pretty bad."

With shaking hands, she opens the jar of ointment and scoops out a bit. Warming it in her palm, she speculates, "I think I might have broken your rib, actually. Maybe you should wrap it..."

Avoiding his stare, Alice applies the paste as gently as possible. She tries not to think too much about the fact that she's standing in a sheltering copse of trees, alone with a man who is barely dressed – at least according to her mother – with her hand inside his shirt. Alice keeps her eyes on what she's doing with effort. The Hatter's stare is a presence in and of itself.

When she's finished, Alice removes her hand with what she hopes is clinical detachment and re-buttons his shirt. Stepping back and collecting the jar from the grass, she clears her throat and informs him: "All finished."

"Is it?"

Startled by his tone, Alice meets his gaze and... oh. Oh! She swallows with difficulty. This is the first time she's ever seen his eyes anything approaching _that _shade of violet before. The part of her mind not frozen in shock, anticipation, and fear wonders what mood _this_ color indicates...

The moment stretches between them. The Hatter's eyes are a furious, blazing violet, but he doesn't move a muscle. Alice feels her body slowly tense for either escape or an attack.

"Alice! We're ready whenever you are!"

Startled by the sound of the Hatter's voice, she turns and gapes at... well, the Hatter. No, no. Not the Hatter. The Cheshire Cat as the Hatter. He saunters over, grinning, as usual.

"The voice, too?" Alice wonders aloud. For some reason, that's both comforting and deeply, deeply disturbing.

"I'm nothing if not thorough," he assures her.

Alice risks a glance at the Hatter's eyes. Peridot green. Not the best of his moods, but certainly better than an orange, murderous rage or whatever that violet had represented.

"If you don't want to coach me this time, it's fine," she tells him.

The Hatter glances at her. Barely. "No, it isn't."

Alice watches as he strides into the clearing, stops just outside the line of trees, and crosses his arms over his chest.

"What is going on here?" she murmurs.

The Cheshire Cat Hatter leans closer to her and Alice is relieved when the scent she breathes in is very much that of cat hair and windswept fields. "You know I can't ruin the surprise," he rumbles. "But you might want to figure it out a bit sooner rather than later."

Alice notes the Hatter's stiff posture in the distance. She nods.

"Wonderful. After you, Alice?" He gestures her into the clearing and she goes, already regretting opening her eyes this morning. Deeply.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4: Scene 1 of 4]


	12. Book 1, Thrice a Vow, 2 of 3

Thanks for reading and thank you VERY MUCH, my reviewers, for sharing such wonderful encouragement with me!

_**

* * *

**__**Chapter Four: Thrice a-Vow**_ [Scene 2 of 4]

The White Queen drifts into her office just after morning tea on Monday. She barely has time to wonder how Alice has been getting on or when she'll make her decision when she's startled by a shadow separating quite distinctly from the free-standing time piece along the wall.

Heart racing, the queen presses a hand to her chest and struggles for a smile. "Alice?"

The intruder takes another step and the queen relaxes. "I'm sorry I startled you."

"Ah, Alice. No harm done. How are you?"

"Fine. And you, Your Majesty?"

Mirana smiles wistfully. "As always, our rest days are far too short."

Alice nods and takes the seat Mirana gestures to. Slipping into the adjacent chair, the queen comments, "You look tired, Alice. Are you sure you're all right?"

Her Champion nods. "Yes. It's been a trying week. Everyone worked very hard to train me. I really appreciate the opportunity," Alice thanks her.

"I did nothing!" the queen protests with heartfelt modesty.

"You organized this. And you probably had a few words with the Hatter on several occasions." Alice grins wryly. "I don't think he would have stuck it out if you hadn't."

Mirana blinks. "I'm afraid I haven't spoken to Tarrant all week. What do you mean by that Alice?"

For the first time since the interview began, an expression other than calm self-assurance is shown on Alice's face. "You didn't? But I thought..." She shakes her head and sighs. "I'll never understand him... Which is odd because I thought I _did._"

"Alice?"

The Queen's Champion sighs. "It's nothing." When the queen merely fixes a severe stare on Alice, the younger woman finally relents: "I just wish he'd figure out whether or not he wants me to do this. He certainly gave me the what-for when I told him I wasn't going to slay the Jabberwocky. But now he... I don't know. He's taught me all week, but he kept asking me to refuse your offer... but sometimes he'd look so... pleased with my progress... until Saturday, that is. Then it was all business. I just... don't understand."

"What happened on Saturday?" the queen inquires.

Alice leans back in her chair and crosses her trouser-clad legs. "We were due to start wrestling..."

The queen blinks, startled. Dear Fate, _wrestling?_ What sort of combat has the Hatter and his cohorts been _teaching_ her Champion? Whatever happened to white gloves and rubber-capped foils and padded shirts?

"... but the Hatter was hurt. My fault. I think I fractured one or two of his ribs the day before..."

"His ribs?" Mirana murmurs, astounded.

"With my knee."

"Your... why?"

"To get him off of _me_ and flat on the _ground_." Alice doesn't say "of course", but the queen can hear it in her tone.

"I... see." But she doesn't. She's alarmed to realize that she hadn't given much thought to what the training of a Champion would involve. Or how... thorough her Hatter would be. Mirana clears her throat. "Please, continue."

"So," Alice obliges, "I was wrestling with Chessur. But he wasn't Chessur. Did you know he's a shape-shifter?"

"Yes, since Tarrant and Mally managed to escape the..." The queen's eyes widen at the implication. Alice confirms it with her next breath.

"I was wrestling Chessur, as the Hatter. On Saturday. Before the throwing-knives and spears. Sunday was garrotes and more wrestling..." Alice frowns. "He wants me to say 'no' but he won't tell me why."

Mirana summons a serene smile despite the disjointed summary. "Well, let's look at this logically. His attitude changed on Saturday so there must be something that precipitated it on that day."

Frustrated, Alice throws up her hands. "I've been going over it again and again, but nothing makes _sense!_"

The phrase startles a revelation from the queen. "Perhaps not. So, let's look at it from the perspective of madness."

"I... beg your pardon?"

"Think like Tarrant," the queen invites.

Alice barks out a laugh. "_No one _thinks like him."

"Try, Alice."

With a huff, Alice closes her eyes. The queen watches her expression as it changes. Irritation makes way for concern, then anger and sorrow... too many emotions to count. After a very long couple of minutes, the queen sees something she's been waiting for.

Alice opens her eyes. "The Hatter... could he... might he think he's attached to me?" she asks wonderingly.

"Do you think he wants to keep you for a pet?" the queen challenges, doing her best to subtly poke Alice in the direction she should be looking.

"... no."

The queen waits.

"He can't... he doesn't think he..." Alice swallows. For a moment, the queen wonders if she'll turn away from the thoughts she's quite obviously having. But, of course, her Champion would find the courage in the end: "Does he think he loves me?"

"I wouldn't be surprised."

"And he wants me to stay in Underland – being your Champion would guarantee that – but he doesn't want me to get hurt, which is bound to happen if I continue to _be_ your Champion..."

A bit taken aback by that observation – well, the last half of it anyway – Mirana rushes to assure her, "You must believe that I'd never intend for you to be hurt because of me, Alice. Honestly, the Wooing Rites are a _formality._ Although the Queen's Champion must participate, the duel itself was never intended to be a true... conflict. I don't know what sort of techniques the Hatter's been teaching you, but I _highly _doubt they'll be needful in the duels."

Alice nods. "But he's acting like he expects differently."

The queen leans back in her chair and sighs. "He's probably thinking of the Trial of Threes."

"What is it?"

"It's to do with the Jabberwocky. Yes, the one you've already slain."

"I don't understand... is it not dead?"

"Oh, you did slay it. Quite hard to miss that!" The queen shudders at the memory. "The Trial of Threes has to do with the fact that there is only one Jabberwocky in Underland. And there _must _be one. After all, without the darkness we cannot see the stars..."

After a brief pause which she uses to collect her thoughts, Mirana explains, "Three years, three months, three weeks, three days, three hours, three minutes, and three seconds – three and a third years _precisely _– after the Jabberwocky is slain, it will rise again. Reborn. The first hour of its reincarnation is very important. The Jabberwocky will be considerably more impressionable at that time than at any other in its life. My sister took advantage of this when she recruited it into her service. The previous barer of the Vorpal Sword had died shortly after killing the Jabberwocky. Iracebeth sent someone – probably her Steward, Ilosovich Stayne – to negotiate with it when it reemerged."

The queen takes a deep breath and speaks bluntly, "In less than three months, I'll ask you, my Champion... _if _you choose to remain my Champion after hearing this... I'll ask you to go to the battlefield – to the Jabberwocky – to negotiate an alliance. And, Alice, you will have to go alone."

In the silence that follows, the ticks and tocks of the clock mark the time.

Finally, just when Mirana thinks she's going to have to start counting off the seconds in the thousands, Alice whispers, "I don't think I can do that."

"I know it sounds dreadful, having to face it again when you've already faced and defeated –"

"No, that's not..." Alice takes a deliberate breath. "The Jabberwocky killed the Hatter's clan, didn't it?"

"Under Stayne's instructions," the queen speculates.

"I'm not sure if that matters. The Hatter... we both know he's not entirely sane. Especially about that Horvendush Day. He can't be rational about the Jabberwocky. If you make peace with it... if I help you..."

"He may never forgive us."

"He may never have a moment of sanity again."

The queen frowns. "Then, perhaps there is another way. I will consult the historical records. Perhaps there is some other option."

Alice nods. "Maybe someone from the Outlands could do it."

Mirana doubts that will end in anything other than disaster, but she doesn't put the thought into words.

Alice concludes, "If the Jabberwocky doesn't agree to keep to itself far away from this castle and the Hatter, I'll kill it. And we'll do this again in another three and a third years."

The White Queen hesitates to endorse that plan. "Alice, reconsider, please. The Jabberwocky will not have forgotten you and the fact that _you_ defeated it once. And it will remember every time you defeat it thereafter. Our best chance for peace is in twelve weeks. Slaying it again will only inspire a grudge that may very well be insurmountable."

Alice slumps in her chair. "This place doesn't do things by halves, does it?"

"No, I can't say it does."

The queen watches as Alice runs a hand through her unbound hair. After a moment, she inquires, "Did the others give you their report on my progress? Am I any good at dueling?"

The queen shakes her head. "This decision must be yours alone, Alice."

With a slight scowl, Alice stands and walks out onto the balcony. She braces her arms on the railing and looks out over the sea of ever-blossoming trees. After a moment, the queen follows her but stops before stepping out onto the balcony. She's seen far too many plummeting tea tables to feel comfortable crossing it without a _very good_ reason.

Alice drums her fingers on the stone and the queen notices that her hands, surprisingly, don't look any rougher than they had last week with the exception of a few red spots: half-healed blisters that will become calluses. Not for the first time, Mirana wishes the Oraculum had called for someone else to slay the Jabberwocky. _Anyone else_. Alice should not be forced to bear this destiny. And that is why the Oraculum has been tucked away in a very well-concealed container ever since that Frabjous Day: it's ridiculous and juvenile, but the queen hopes that if no one _knows _Alice's future as it's foretold, then she will be able to make her own.

_Oh, how we fight against you, Fate. Whether you are friend or fiend..._

Alice turns around, regards something over head for a moment, and then crosses the balcony, stopping at the queen's side.

"I'll do it," she says quietly. "But don't tell anyone yet." Her gaze shifts upward again, no doubt in the direction of the window to Tarrant's rooms above them. "I'll try to explain it to him, but it might take a few days. And, please, no banquets or balls or celebrations about it."

"Why are you agreeing if you don't feel it's something to be celebrated?"

Alice closes her eyes briefly. When she opens them, there's an acceptance about her that the queen's never seen before. "I want to belong here. I think I'm good at fighting, actually. I think I could be even better. It feels like this is what I'm meant to do. Nothing's ever... stirred my blood like being your Champion. And I... whatever happens, I don't want to leave again."

"You don't have to accept this position in order to stay," Mirana hurries to say.

"I know that. But, like you said, we all have our roles. The Hatter waits for me and I arrive. The Jabberwocky destroys whatever is in its path and I fight it. You shine light all across Underland and I do what I can to keep back the shadows." Alice gives the queen a confident grin. "I'm ready to accept that."

Mirana blinks back against the heat of sudden tears. "Thank you, Alice."

Alice nods and turns toward the door.

Mirana drifts over to her desk and collects an assortment of parchments. "Oh, and Alice?"

A few paces from the door, Alice turns.

Lifting the first document, the White Queen reads, "'It can't be said how good Alice will be at dueling stuck-up scumbags, but she's trounced the Hatter more often than not.'"

The queen smiles at the look on Alice's face. "That was from Mallymkun."

"I could tell."

"And this one: 'Alice might need another month before she can duel, but, contrariwise, she might not. She's a natural at fighting, a natural fighter.' From the Tweedles."

Alice blinks. "I wonder how long it took them to word that."

The queen chuckles and picks up the next parchment. "'Tell Alice to cut her hair. If that tove's nest gets in her eyes, nothing good will come of it. Otherwise, I expect she'll perform quite admirably.'"

"From Chessur?" Alice asks.

The queen nods and reaches for the final parchment. She glances down at the handwriting. The words are too dark, too slanted. The vellum has been permanently dented by the pressure of the writer's hand. Having heard Alice explain her experiences over the last week and the inner turmoil Tarrant must be facing down every minute of every day, the queen is quite surprised by his conclusion.

She reads, "'Any queen would be honored to have a Champion with as much muchness.'"

"Tha..." Alice clears her throat. "Thank you, Your Majesty."

"Thank _you_, Alice."

The queen watches her Champion exit the office. Alone now, the queen allows her smile to fade. She looks back at Tarrant's report, her eyes drawn to the nearly illegible scrawl that takes up the lower three-quarters of the page:

_If she dies I shall never forgive her she will not leave me again don't die Alice stay live stay live not the same go back to Upland and live stay with me and never pick up a sword if you die I shall never never __**never NEVER**__..._

The queen looks away. She doesn't have to read the entirety of it a second time.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4: Scene 2 of 4]


	13. Book 1, Thrice a Vow, 3 of 3

_**Warning: **_The following contains mentions of BLOOD and the exchange thereof. It's not extremely graphic or overly gorey, but I'd thought I'd better let you all know.

* * *

_**Chapter Four: Thrice a-Vow**_ [Scenes 3 & 4 of 4]

Tarrant Hightopp is a hatter. He is not a fighter, not naturally, not without a campaign of vengeance to lift his sword. He is a hatter and hatters make hats. It's a trying process with many inconceivably meticulous details in each stage of creation. Tarrant Hightopp is a hatter and he plies his trade again with a fierce focus he has not enjoyed for some time.

As he works, he is not burdened with worry and fear and anguish and _terror_ over Alice and her future.

As he works, he does not feel the bruises on his shins, knees, and ribs. He only feels the tiny war wounds on his fingers as he fights with his materials.

As he works, he does not see Alice and himself – no, not Tarrant but that imposter! – grappling on the ground. He does not see her eyes flash with determination. He does not see her face flush from exertion. He does not see her chest heave with labored breaths. He does not see the way she moves. He does not marvel at her grace. He does not wonder at her strength of will. He does not see or think of her at all.

But, sometimes, he smells her.

Sometimes, like now.

Tarrant bends over his creations with renewed intent.

The scent does not leave him, however.

He slams his things down on the worktop. Oh, how utterly, unforgivably, mercilessly cruel his memory is! Just last week, he'd savored this fragrance and now it eviscerates him!

Perhaps it will overcome this persistent stomach ache. A new pain would be welcome. _Anything_ different would be welcome.

He braces his hands against the worktop, lowers his head, and closes his eyes, allowing himself to become lost in his mind. The madness surrounds him constantly now, ever since she'd touched him. Touched him with her bare hand against his skin. Beneath his shirt. And he'd almost... _almost_...

_No! Think o' something else! Anythin' else!_

He can't. Perhaps he doesn't want to. If he were honest with himself, he'd admit that he doesn't even _try_ to turn his thoughts away from that moment. It's the closest thing to... to... to _knowing_ another person he's felt in... years.

He fists his hands as the memory loops around, repeating.

Her fingers on the buttons of his shirt and his shock.

Her gentle touch as she'd tended to his injury and his sudden, overwhelming _need_ for her.

In that moment, he would have _done __**anything**_ to ensure that she would never _ever __**dare to leave AGAIN!**_

He shudders. The madness holds him close and he wishes... He wishes her scent would leave him be, stop tormenting him. He wishes he could capture Time and place it as the centerpiece on Thackery's tea table. He wishes he could keep Alice there in the neighboring seat, with her knee only a twitch away and her hand on his arm and her eyes shining with humor and...

"Hatter!"

... and the sound of his given name spoken in her voice.

"Tarrant!"

No, not like that. More softly, gently...

"Tarrant..."

Ah, yes. Just so. Just _exactly unimaginably indescribably __**so**_...

"Open your eyes."

The whisper is compelling but he resists. "Again," he rasps.

The madness recedes enough for him to hear the silence of the room. Blessed, wondrous silence...

"... Tarrant..."

... silence and Alice, saying his name.

He opens his eyes and pivots unsteadily. "Alice," he murmurs, feeling her hands slide down his shoulders and away from him.

_No, no, not yet!_

He reaches for her hand, targeting the left one at random, capturing it in both of his and gripping tightly. He wants to tell her not to go. _Stay!_ But he can't find any words, any breath. Only desperation answers his call for sanity.

"Ouch!"

The exclamation startles him. He looks down and opens his hands and stares...

A drop of intriguingly crimson-colored blood swells on the tip of Alice's finger. Her third finger. On her left hand. Tarrant stares at what must be the work of providence. The wildness grips him again and...

Alice gasps.

Tarrant blinks and notices two things immediately: first, he's holding Alice's fingers to his lips; and second, he's brushing his tongue over the droplet of blood, tasting her.

_What have ye __**done**__?_

No, no, no. Should not. _Must_ not!

"I'm sorry! I'm so very sorry, Alice!" Frantically trying to distract himself from the taste of her, he examines her fingers for other injuries and hopes – mostly – for none. "The pin in my cuff must have... I'm so very... _I __**hurt**_ _you, Alice!_" he concludes, devastated, disconcerted, disoriented.

"It's all right," she replies with maddening patience.

"No! No! It is _not_ all right!" _What have I done? It stops here. She must not... no, no, of course she won't! Why would she want to...?_ "And, of all the appalling manners!" he stutters, flustered. "To take liberties on your person as I have! I'm so deeply... I can't... I don't know...!"

He can hear her saying "Hatter" again and again, touching his face, but it doesn't help. His wretchedness can get no more acute, no _better_, no more absolutely suffocating.

A slight pain distracts him enough to focus and his nonsensical words and disjointed sentences dry up in his mouth at the sight of Alice lifting Tarrant's own just-pricked heart-line finger to her lips.

"... no..."

The word is so soft it can barely be called a sigh. He watches, helpless, entranced, as Alice glances at the perfectly normal bead of deep blue blood before parting her lips and...

... and...

... and Tarrant focuses again. With some relief, he realizes he hasn't moved a muscle. Yes, yes, that's for the best. He wouldn't want to... No, no, of course he wouldn't. He won't. Alice doesn't really understand what she's done, now, has she? No, of course not...

"There," she says with a victorious little grin. "I reckon that makes us even."

She's still holding his hand. He can still taste the very odd salty tang of her blood on his tongue. And he...

"Tarrant?"

He watches as his right hand reaches for her, tangles in the hair at the back of her neck, and lifts her face to his. When had he closed the distance between them? He doesn't know nor does he care. His lips brush against hers and he wants so much more than this shadow of a kiss, but he must not, dares not, _will not!_

She holds onto him. Her hands curl around his arms and she _holds onto __**him!**_

Tarrant's entire being shudders with joy and longing and...

_No. No! __**D'nae **__take more than this!_

But even as he thinks it, her mouth moves against his. Her lips part. Just the smallest increment.

He groans and, shaking, unsteadily trails his tongue along the inside of her lips.

_**STOP!**_

This time, he does. Breathing heavily, he gently releases her and clasps his hands together to keep them from finding their way back to her again.

"I'm sorry..." he begins, struggling to push the whirling emotions back and do the proper thing and...

"I'm not."

Tarrant looks at her. Examines her. He clutches his hands together tighter. Her hair – he's grasped it in his hand! – tumbles over her shoulder rather than down her back, as usual. Her lips – he's savored them! – curl into a knowing smile. He can think of nothing to say to her. He can barely keep his mind from drowning in the frothing, churning, raging tide of everything-he's-ever-felt-but-is-_suddenly-feeling-__**all-at-once!**_

And then she places a hand against his cheek. He closes his eyes, feels his knees buckle, and...

Perhaps he hits the worktable on his way to the floor. Perhaps he lands on a pile of hats. Perhaps he falls through a looking glass and into another world entirely.

He has no idea.

Nor does he particularly care.

* * *

"Excellent work, Alice. Just spectacular," Alice mutters as she staggers under the Hatter's weight. When he'd swayed, she'd ducked under his arms, hoping to somehow maneuver him over to the battered sofa against the far wall, but after the third step, she'd overbalanced and after that... well, she's just glad he hadn't hit his left side on anything. And that she hadn't kicked it again.

She pulls bolts of fabric down to the floor, lifts his head and slides the softest of them under it for a pillow. She hesitates over how to make him more comfortable on the cold floor of his workshop. "Well, the cravat looks a bit tight..."

Alice loosens it and releases the top button on his shirt. Wisely, she leaves his jacket, waistcoat, trousers and boots alone. She makes a seat for herself on an assortment of fabric bolts and then spreads another – the warmest-looking – over him. With that done, she presses a hand to his forehead but he feels normal. Perfectly normal. No chills or fever. Not in the conventional sense, anyway.

With a sigh, she tidies up the things the Hatter had knocked over first when she'd surprised him and then when he'd been working himself into a frenzy of regret and, finally, when he'd passed out.

"Some Champion of kisses you are, Alice," she murmurs, setting a bowler hat with a jade green hat band on the tabletop.

When she's picked up everything within arm's reach – even a few tiny pins and a dusty button, Alice turns back to the Hatter and once again places her hand on his brow. From there, it migrates into his vivid hair.

"Soft," she muses. Softer than she'd expected. The kiss had been as well. When his irises had suddenly burst into that unmistakable violet, she'd had no idea of what to expect. But his hand in her hair had been nothing but gentle. And the way he'd curled his body down to her had been alarming only insofar as how her own body had tingled in anticipation. Then, before she could be shocked at herself for wanting to kiss him, he'd settled his mouth against hers.

Alice closes her eyes. His breath had been as sweet as his blood. Blue blood. The taste of which had been... like caramels and bergamot. How strange. But then, everything about the Hatter is strange. Always has been, at least since she'd first arrived in Underland. Alice feels that his strangeness is one of his finer qualities. Equal to his ability to see straight through to the truth of things.

Alice is not looking forward to disappointing him. Again.

In the silence, she rehearses her explanation:

_I've decided. I'm the Queen's Champion now. I'll be careful but I'll need your help every now and again when I get lazy and soft. I'm staying. And I know about the Trial of Threes. You're half-mad and I'm out of my mind so we'll find an answer between the two of us..._

Actually, Alice muses, that's not half-bad. "Of course you wouldn't be awake to hear it. I'll probably forget the whole thing by the time you come around."

She huffs out a breathy laugh. "And here I'd always thought it was the _ladies_ who swooned from a kiss..."

But, no, it hadn't been the kiss that had caused this. There'd been something else in his eyes. A storm of triumph and panic and... something else. Perhaps he hadn't meant to...

Alice tries to ignore the fact that her heart is sinking into her stomach.

Yes, there's every possibility that he hadn't _meant_ to kiss her at all. Perhaps it had just been the madness. And it is madness for her to assume that anything has changed between them.

Regardless, Alice grasps his hand in hers, leans back against a nearby set of drawers, closes her eyes and waits.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4]

* * *

NOTE: And if you can't wait to find out what happens next... well, you'll be able to read more on my homepage. *pokes FFnet Bio*


	14. Book 1, The Wooing Rites, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Five: The Wooing Rites**_ [Scenes of 1 & 2 of 4]

"_Ye've done __**WHAT**__?_"

The entire castle seems to wince in the wake of the thunderous shout. Luckily, it doesn't have any adverse effects on the recipient.

Alice determinedly repeats herself, "I told the queen I'd do it. I know about the Trial of Threes. There must be another option. We'll find it."

The Hatter glares at her. "Another option," he parrots. "Aye, there is one; ye can go back teh Upland!"

"I'm not going back! I've decided to _stay,_ you stubborn milliner!"

Alice tenses, waiting for the next volley. She can't say this conversation has gone very well, but it's gone better than she'd expected... so far.

"Ye're... stayin'?"

His hopeful expression and blue-green eyes invite her closer. "Yes," Alice says, taking a step nearer.

The Hatter shakes himself suddenly. "Nae! Ye shoul'nae! If ye stay, ye'll die."

"Die?" Even for a _– _mostly _– _mad hatter, that seems a bit of an over-reaction.

He struggles with his thoughts or perhaps his temper or maybe both. "The Jabberwocky will _remember_ you. You can_nae –_" Alice resists a wince as his control unravels... again. " – _stand by and let it __**kill ye**_ _while ye're tryin' teh __**negotiate**__!_"

"You're absolutely right."

"I –! ... Alice?"

"It'll try to kill me. If we can't find any middle ground, I'll kill the blasted beast. Every three and a third years if I have to!"

The Hatter stares at her, his eyes wide, fearful.

"You think I can't guess what it would do to you to know that... that _thing_ was allowed to live? Under Mirana's protection, no less?" Alice finally crosses the distance between them and stands toe-to-toe with him. "I don't _want _to slay anything." Alice daringly reaches for his hands. "But I _will_ not let you be hurt."

She feels a slight tremor in his fingers. Alice tightens her grasp.

In a sudden move, the Hatter curls his unsteady fingers around her wrists and pulls them up. He steps closer until her fingertips brush against his lapels. "_I _will not let _you_ be hurt."

His gaze burns. Alice tells herself not to let herself feel complacent in this apparent cease-fire. There's still quite a lot of time between now and the resurrection of the Jabberwocky for the Hatter to get... prickly and unreasonable again.

Alice smiles. "Then, on this point, I suppose we'll just have to agree to... agree."

The Hatter grins and giggles. "I think you've made a rhyme."

* * *

Tarrant stares out at the assembly. He fidgets with the lace on his cuffs and tugs at his lapels. He decides he hates new suits. Too stiff. He also hates new-suit-occasions. Too obsequious . With too-bright eyes and a toothy smile, Tarrant scans the sea of Outland princes, lords, vassals, and dignitaries until his gaze alights on a woman with short, tangled blond hair in a slivery blue vest, white shirtsleeves and trousers.

_Alice..._

His gaze lingers on her hair, short now. Short enough to stay out of her way when she fights. His fingers curl into a fist as he remembers what that hair had felt like when it had been longer. The one time he'd touched it. He's glad he has the memory. It's a good one. Tarrant doesn't have many good ones.

"Wassailin?"

Tarrant blinks and turns toward the attending frog. "Ah, thank you, Pondish."

Tarrant lifts the slender, crystal glass and studies the pale blue, bubbling beverage. He hates Wassailin with a passion. But he's noticed that the color very nearly matches the blue of Alice's vest. And it precisely matches the sword and knife scabbards slung on straps of leather crisscrossing her hips.

One of Pondish's fellows – Lakerton, perhaps; it's difficult to be sure at this distance – maneuvers through the crowd and offers the queen and her Champion a beverage from his tray. The queen accepts. Alice does not.

In truth, this is the first time Tarrant has seen her in four days. _Four unbelievably __**long**_ _days! _And then it was just at dinner with the queen, Fenruffle, and an assortment of giddy courtiers who had demanded new hats for this very occasion. She'd looked tired then, but had smiled at him down the table. Unfortunately, the Royal Hatter's chair is quite far from the head of the table when so many guests are present. She'd still had long hair then. But, oddly enough, he's starting to appreciate this much shorter style. Of course that has nothing _whatsoever_ to do with the clear, unobstructed view of her neck when she tilts her head just so or stretches up her chin to scan the crowd.

He giggles as she performs that very move for his enjoyment.

"Enjoying the Wassailin?" a cultured voice drawls at his shoulder.

Tarrant doesn't take his eyes off of Alice. _**The**_ _Alice._ _**His**_ _Alice!_ He murmurs, "And just how did you merit an invitation, Chessur?"

He doesn't see the grin, but Tarrant knows it's there. "Special security. Are you going to drink that or stare through it at Alice all night?"

"Stare, of course. Alice looks lovely in blue, don't you think?"

Chessur purrs out a speculative hum. "There's something different about you, Tarrant..."

"You smell it, too?" he asks, fingering the over-starched lapel with his free hand.

"Yes... You seem... quite pleased with yourself. And do I detect a certain Uplander scent on you now?"

"If you do, would you be so kind as to direct my nose to it? I haven't had a whiff of Alice yet this evening."

"You would if you'd go over there and _talk_ to her."

Tarrant's grin wilts. "She's working. Protecting the queen. Mustn't get in the way of that."

"Fenruffle, that useless excuse for a feathered hat," Chessur growls with surprising irritation. "Are you letting him bully you away from _your_ Alice?"

_That_ catches Tarrant's attention. With a frown, he turns to his odd feline friend.

Chessur leans closer and sniffs the air delicately. "Ah... Do I smell the first promise of the _Thrice a-Vow_, Hatter?"

Tarrant stares at him blankly.

The Chesire Cat grins wickedly. "Oh, my, goodness. That _is _what it is! That... _newness_ about you. Congratulations, Tarrant. However did you manage to convince her to do it?"

Unsettled by these astute observations, Tarrant turns away, his eyes shifting guiltily. "Perhaps she's the one who convinced _me_."

"Oh, I would have _loved_ to have been a grin on the wall for that."

The idea, understandably, is not a comforting one for Tarrant.

"Speaking of things I love, where _is _your precious hat, dear Hatter?"

Tarrant turns back to the Cheshire Cat and glares.

"New suit, new top hat... you're looking as sparkling as the royal drapes in that dove grey, but _where oh '__**wear'**_ has your beautiful hat got to?"

"It's quite safe and you'll leave it right _wear_ it is if you know what's good for you."

Chessur twirls in the air, mischievous grin present and accounted for. "And on that note, back to work..."

Before he has finished evaporating, Tarrant is scanning the crowd again, hunting for and – _there! _– recapturing the sight of her. He tenses as one of the visiting prince's retainers sidles up beside Alice, more than a bit too close. Evidently, Alice agrees. Keeping the queen in her line of sight, she gives the encroaching booly-geber a well placed pointed toe, tripping him into an older woman with a rather unfortunately large bosom. Tarrant giggles. His Alice has turned out to be quite talented with her feet.

Although he _does_ consider pushing his way through the crush of bodies to smell her, talk to her, watch her meet his gaze, he knows he won't. He'll behave.

Yes, it's quite frustrating to have a room between them when, a mere ten days ago, there'd been nothing between them but clothing and buttons. He feels his grin stretch into something that might be a bit more... predatory. Yes, with enough time to reflect, Tarrant can't find anything worthy of regret in that kiss, the sealing of their first exchange. The first of three. After all, that's why it's called the _**Thrice**_ _a-Vow_.

He's also had time to get used to the idea that Alice makes a rather excellent Queen's Champion. The issue with that bloody Jabberwocky notwithstanding, the only thing Tarrant would like to change about his life is to integrate a bit more Alice-time into it.

He sighs. A look down the length of a dinner table and, days before that, a smile through the open door of his workshop and, days before that, tea with the queen and Fenruffle and Alice's other instructors to discuss who her next battle-skills and etiquette tutors were to be had certainly not been enough time. Not enough by half!

A slight commotion in the queen's – and, thus, Alice's – general vicinity brings Tarrant's full attention back around. What appears to be a pair of dignitaries are shoving at each other, working up to a good shouting match. Tarrant keeps his eyes on Alice, who plucks a flute of Wassailin off of a passing waiter's tray and flings the contents in their precise direction. He supposes those knife throwing lessons _had_ been useful after all...

A shocked gasp reverberates through the crowd and Tarrant giggles in the wake.

"Take your dispute outside next time," Alice informs them without bothering to glance in their direction. Her calm, authoritative tone carries easily in the hushed gathering. Tarrant claps his hand over his mouth to keep from cheering.

_Must not interfere. Alice is working now._

The deeply offended pair of lords are ushered out to get cleaned up by an apologetic Fenruffle and conversation starts again in drips and drabs.

"That's my Alice," Tarrant muses.

_If she's __**your**_ _Alice, why is she all the way over there and you're all the way over here?_

"Alice is working. Mustn't get in the way," he reminds himself.

And, perhaps she'd heard his murmurings because, at that exact moment, when the queen is animatedly chatting with a short, fat man in a very poorly made bowler hat, Alice looks up, across the sea of powdered wigs, coquettishly pinned hats, and swaying feathers _right into Tarrant's eyes._

She smiles.

Tarrant takes that smile – that heartfelt, revealing, glowing smile – and tucks it away in a pocket for safe keeping. Not his pocket watch pocket, of course. The blasted thing has never been safe there, that's for sure!

In less than a moment, it's over. Alice is working again. He sighs.

A smile over the heads of the wealthy, greedy, and zealous is not very much. Not _nearly _enough. But it is a little _more._

Smiling, Tarrant pours half of his Wassailin onto a potted tree. "One of us ought to enjoy the refreshments," he explains, then leans back against the balustrade of the curving, marble staircase and, hand weaving through the air in time with the orchestra, ignores the over-starched, non-Alice scent of his new, poorly-hued suit and watches his promised one handle the crowd.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5: Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]


	15. Book 1, The Wooing Rites, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Five: The Wooing Rites**_ [Scene 3 of 4]

"What are you still doing here, Alice?"

Alice turns away from the clear, starlit night. Her hand drops from the curtain. "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

Mirana removes her earrings and hat, setting them on her dresser. "The party's over. It's late. Go to bed."

Alice nods, but she doesn't want to go to bed. Not yet. "Do you think I was rude enough?"

The queen smiles. "Tripping people and dousing them with beverages? I think you were perfect, Alice."

"Let's hope it was enough to dissuade any of your visitors from causing trouble during their stay."

"I'm sure it will be." Mirana removes her bracelets and places each in its velvet box, one by one. "You've grasped the concept of the Queen's Champion quite well. Do not worry."

She nods. "All right, I'll let you get some sleep, Your Majesty. There don't appear to be any assassins hiding behind your drapes."

"I should hope not!"

"Good night, Your Majesty,"

"Good night, Alice. I'll see you at brunch."

Brunch, yes. A _lovely_ tea party with each of the queen's five suitors and one of their ministers. Splendid. Closing the door behind her, Alice sighs. She takes the winding stairs down the castle tower which houses the queen's chambers, her mind off on its own.

Well, not _quite_ on its own. A vision of the Hatter, looking oddly _contained_ in his silvery suit and top hat stays with her. His hair had been a bit less wild tonight although no less vivid. He eyes had looked blue again, but at that distance, it had been hard to tell for sure.

Alice shakes herself. _Focus, Alice. There are guests in the castle._ Yes, now is really not the best time to be wandering about in a daze.

She reaches the bottom of the staircase, nods to the rook and bishop guarding the entrance to the queen's tower, and turns left. Another turn and she finds herself walking in the direction of the Hatter's rooms.

_You shouldn't be here,_ she tells herself even as she notices the faint glow of light escaping from under the door. _He might be busy..._ She tries not to think in too great detail about the personal routines that might prevent him from answering the door were she to knock...

"Well, are you going in or will you be staring at a doorknob all night?" the keyhole asks snootily.

"Was I staring?" she asks.

"Quite."

"Sorry."

A slight pause follows and then: "Staring again!"

"Oh, all right. I'll go in."

She raises a fist to knock but the door swings open at the same instant. Soft, yellow light from the oil lamps spills out into the corridor. Alice regards the Hatter in his shirtsleeves, vest unbuttoned and cravat hanging loosely around his neck.

"Alice!"

"It's late, I know. I just... had a moment and I haven't seen you in days..."

He invites her in with a step to the side and a tiny bow. Closing the door behind her, the Hatter says, "But you _did_ see me this evening... didn't you?"

"I did, but –"

"But you meant you haven't smelled me in days," he finishes for her.

Alice smiles. "That's one way to look at it."

"Are we back to looking?"

Alice's lips twitch with humor at the teasing light in his eyes. Blue eyes. Definitely blue. "Yes," she tells him. "I thought you'd looked moonstruck at the party earlier. Now I'm sure of it."

"You hair's shorter," the Hatter says suddenly.

Alice resists raising a hand to it. "I know. It feels strange. Too light."

"I like it. It suits you."

_Why am I blushing?_ Alice despairs, mortified. She can think of nothing to say in reply.

"Would you care for a chair?"

Alice follows his gesture and chooses not one of the armchairs, but the small sofa. She unbuckles her sword and sits on the right side. With a slight hesitation, the Hatter joins her. She can't help but notice his rigid posture.

Collecting his hand – the one nearest to her – she asks, "What are you thinking, Hatter?"

"You called me by my given name before," he points out softly.

Alice remembers. "You don't mind?"

"No."

"All right." She takes a steadying breath. "What are you thinking, Tarrant?"

He relaxes and finally turns toward her completely. His tension seems to have miraculously disappeared. Or evaporated.

"I was thinking, Alice, that I like it when you say my name. I also like it that you came to visit me. Not that I'd only like you to visit now, that is to say, at this moment. I dare say I'd like you to visit anytime you were so inclined, and what I mean by that is, well, that is, I.. I..."

"Tarrant," Alice says, squeezing his hand. "I've missed you, too."

The Hatter leans his shoulder against the sofa cushion and gives her a tremulous smile. For a moment, he says nothing. His eyes move as he studies her intently. Alice watches his expressions change, his eye color shift from blue into pale green.

"I'm worried about you," he says, sounding a little surprised by his own revelation.

Alice assures him, "I was more worried this morning, before I'd seen them. The queen's suitors, I mean. Now that I _have _seen them. Well, I think that Prince Avendale might be... well. I don't know what to think of a..."

"A lion."

Alice nods, but Avendale is not _just _a lion. Although she'd never seen a live one in England, she's pretty sure it's impossible for lions to walk upright as Avendale does. Nor do they have long-fingered paws. Nor do they wear a rather intimidating-looking scimitar at their side.

"And then there's the unicorn – Lord Hornsaver." Again, an upright-walking creature with hands more closely resembling a man's than a horse's hooves. Despite their alien-ness, Alice doesn't think they're the ones to be worrying about. "The other three – Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer – are more like what I'd expected." She glances at the Hatter's expression. "But maybe not as heartless and cutthroat as you'd thought they might be."

"Alice... 'twas only the opening banquet..."

"I know. It's too soon to be making character judgments."

"Judge them all you like, but keep yer hand on yer sword."

She nods. "The order of the interviews and duels will be decided tomorrow after brunch," Alice says. "The interviews will be closed to observation, but the duels won't. Will you be attending?"

"I would be most honored to see you fight, Alice."

She releases a long breath. "Thank you. I'd like for you to be there." After what he'd done to help her during the battle on Frabjous Day, Alice can't help wanting him there, just in case. And then, knowing that he's watching, she'll be properly motivated not to disappoint anyone. Especially him.

"When will the duels commence?"

"Next week. After I chaperone the queen's meetings with each of her suitors."

They stop speaking then. Sitting together, her left hand clasping his right, Alice can find nothing else to say, and oddly enough she doesn't feel the need to. Long minutes pass before Alice reminds herself that she has to get some sleep.

"I should go."

The Hatter nods. Standing, he holds out a hand to help her up. He waits as Alice re-buckles the sword scabbard to her waist, then escorts her to the door.

"Alice," he says quietly.

"Yes?"

The Hatter smiles. "Please let me know if you are in need of any riddles for the interviews."

Imagining how entertaining it could be to conduct those interviews as if she were as mad as a hatter, Alice laughs. "What an idea! Thank you."

He smile fades as he watches her. "Alice, why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?"

Alice squeezes his hand one last time. "I haven't the slightest idea."

With an oddly melancholy grin, the Hatter says, "I shall escort you to your room."

"No, please, don't." When his expression sinks into sadness, she hurries to say, "Not tonight. When the queen's suitors have gone..."

For a moment, she watches him consider that. Perhaps he's remembering the interest that obnoxious vassal had shown in her. Perhaps he'd noticed how Lord Oshtyer had kept Alice in his sights all night. She wonders if he'd seen her smile at the Hatter. If there's one thing she will do anything to avoid, it's drawing the Hatter into the political games of the court. If they're anything like dealing with the Chattaways and their ilk, Alice would rather avoid the entire experience. For now, it's best to keep her attachment to him a secret.

The Hatter still seems confused, so Alice raises a hand and places it daringly in the center of his chest. Rather than explain her logic and fears, she settles on saying something he can keep with him in the coming weeks. "I'm your secret, Tarrant." She'd drawn his attention at the simple touch, but now she sees his eyes widen in pleasant surprise. "Do you want the courtiers to know?"

"I d'nae care one way 'r th'other," he murmurs warmly, placing a hand over hers.

"Courtiers..." Alice struggles for words, for focus. "They like secrets. They like the games they can play with them..."

The Hatter's eyes darken. "This i'snae a game."

"Not a game." Although Alice isn't sure where this is going, she knows she's quite committed to seeing it through.

"Ye're _my _secret."

"Yes."

And he keeps it. In public, the Hatter is courteous, as always. He does not seek her out. He does not approach her. Sometimes she feels his stare on her, but remembering the speculative gleam in Oshtyer's shrewd, black eyes, she forces herself to merely acknowledge the Hatter's attention. Acknowledge, as any decent Champion would, and then dismiss him.

Keeping secrets, Alice muses as she trails behind Mirana and Prince Jaspien, hurts. She tries not to remember navigating this very orchard path with the Hatter that first Saturday after she'd returned. After he'd saved her from...

Alice stops her thoughts there. It will do no good to dwell on the things she cannot change.

The week drags, yet, somehow Alice doesn't have the opportunity to visit the Hatter. Just as the princes and lords turn on the charm, vying for the queen's attention, Alice finds herself dodging overly ambitious vassals and ministers, able to escape their simpering only when she's performing her morning excises with volunteers from the queen's army, behind closed doors with Mirana herself, or slamming her own bedroom door shut in their smiling faces.

As she does now.

Alice glares at her bedroom door. Despite Mirana's offer, Alice had never accepted a suite of rooms in the castle. Thinking of how convenient it would be to be able to have a cup of tea without being swarmed, Alice regrets declining.

With a blustery sigh, she turns the key in the lock and marches over to her dresser to begin the arduous task of disrobing. She unbuttons her shirt cuffs and removes the gauntlets and the small throwing knives the Hatter had given her. She hadn't asked, but she strongly suspects he'd made the gauntlets himself. Next, she pulls the coiled length of garrote from a hidden pocket along her belt. Then the sword and the knife are unbuckled and laid down. Taking a seat, Alice lifts her pant legs and unbuckles the knife sheathes around her ankles.

As she undresses, she finds herself thankful for not having to deal with stockings and petticoats and corsets on top of everything else. She doesn't even have to worry about stiff jackets, not with being permitted to wear only shirtsleeves and a vest. No, she doesn't miss the clothes she'd grown up wearing at all.

Alice had made one request from the Royal Seamstress: trouser pajamas. At first, it had seemed odd to sleep with pants on, but what sort of Champion would she be if the queen needed her urgently in the middle of the night and she managed to trip over the hem of her nightdress in the midst of an urgent situation?

Now as comfortable as she can be considering her duties on the morrow, Alice sits down at her desk and looks over the series of interview questions she'd compiled from various historical sources as well as from the queen. The idea of conducting these interviews like a mad hatter still hasn't left her. She grins and reaches for her quill.

Perhaps just a one or two riddles, then...

* * *

[End of Chapter 5: Scene 3 of 4]


	16. Book 1, The Wooing Rites, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Five: The Wooing Rites**_ [Scene 4 of 4]

At precisely two o'clock, Tarrant Hightopp strides through the castle, keeping an eye out for witnesses. Luckily, with it being teatime, no one is out and about. Except for the Royal Hatter, of course.

Following the way Chessur had showed him just that morning, Tarrant ducks into the queen's library of alchemy resource materials, ghosts into her unused supply cupboard and, leaning against the far wall, does his best to be as silent as he can.

From the other side of the thin wood, the sounds of tea being served and chairs adjusted drifts through. The mundane noises continue for so long that Tarrant wonders if he's trying to eavesdrop on the wrong room. Or perhaps this is Chessur's idea of a joke. A clever little joke – let's tell Tarrant his Alice is in the parlor that shares a rather thin wall with the old potions supply cupboard where he'll be able to overhear her every word...

"Do you take butter in your tea, Lord Hornsaver?"

Tarrant grins with both relief – _it's not a joke after all! – _and delight as Alice's voice comes through loud and clear. And then he bites back a giggle as he comprehends her question.

"I... I beg your pardon, madam?"

"Butter. In your tea? No? Jam?"

"Er, well, that is, no... thank you."

Tarrant hears the unmistakable sound of someone fixing their tea. Perhaps with butter and jam.

"Impress me, then, Lord Hornsaver."

"I'm sorry?"

"Oh, dear, that's not a good start at all," Alice says. "I'd rather been hoping to hear a convoluted and obviously embellished story about your achievements and personal qualities. Ah well, let's move on to the important questions, shall we?"

"Oh... yes. Let's."

"Lord Hornsaver, can you tell me why a bread-and-butterfly cannot sit on the head of a pin?"

Tarrant has to clap his hands over his mouth and nose to keep his laughter silent. _And that's a simple one!_ he chortles as the unicorn blusters and bumbles in the other room.

"Well, would it be because, well, it's quite obvious that a bread-and-butterfly cannot _sit_ at all."

"Hm... Are you quite sure? Have you asked one if it couldn't?"

"Oh, well, no..."

"I see."

"Well, then, madam! Why _can't_ a bread-and-butterfly sit on the head of a pin?"

"Because the head of a pin does not allow sufficient space for a chair to be placed upon it, of course."

Throughout the interview, Tarrant has to dab at his tearing eyes with a handkerchief and bite his knuckles to keep silent.

"Are you quite sure you would like to work for the peace of all Underland and well-being of all of its creatures?" Alice confirms the unicorn's response to an inquiry regarding his grandest dream.

"Oh, well, yes, of course I'm sure."

"An odd sort of dream."

"Is it?"

"Certainly. Dreams – especially the grandest ones – tend to be quite random and fanciful. Not about the future. It is, after all, a product of your subconscious mind."

"I... see."

The interview lasts for a highly entertaining hour and a half. At the end of it, Hornsaver snorts and stomps from the room. Tarrant waits a moment before leaving his hiding place. He hopes to slip into the hall and congratulate Alice on her masterful interviewing technique, but is startled by the commotion in the corridor. Frowning, he regards the ruckus from the crack between the door and the frame. Why, it appears as if every single castle occupant is pressing against each other, shouting at the unicorn to divulge the details of the interview.

Resigned, Tarrant closes the door and takes a seat in the alchemy library to wait for the fuss to die down. And, after a while, it does. Or at least the hallway is clear. He realizes, shortly thereafter, that the fuss has migrated to the dinning room where Alice is blithely ignoring any and all attempts to draw her into conversation. She sits stoically at the queen's side, at attention.

Tarrant wishes there were a secret doorway leading to the wall behind the head of the table. Perhaps something hidden behind a tapestry... but there is no tapestry.

_Perhaps I shall make a suggestion to the queen about that..._

Even without the installation of a secret door, a tapestry or a screen would not go amiss, certainly, but it would require a great deal of time spent hiding behind it – entering the room well before dinner when it's empty and waiting for hours!

With a sigh, Tarrant wishes for evaporating skills.

He considers ducking back out into the hall and begging a bowl of stew from the servants' kitchen but thinks of Alice. Would she like for him to stay? Oh, why hadn't he asked her for her preferences on this point last week when she'd come by to see him?

The thought actually cheers Tarrant considerably: there's no reason he can't sit in his customary, absurdly-distant-from-his-Alice seat while he daydreams about her visit, now can he? Humming to himself, Tarrant slips into his chair and is happily ignored by the less popular courtiers who have earned seats at this end of the table. He nods to the Royal Seamstress before beginning a careful examination of his dessert fork. Of course, he's not terribly interested in his silverware. But it serves to keep people from trying to speak to him which allows him a plethora of opportunities to glance in Alice's direction every few minutes.

_Oh, how they must be annoying her!_ He can only imagine.

_She's bearing it well, though..._ Perhaps that had been included in her etiquette lessons two weeks ago, the lessons that Tarrant hadn't been permitted to teach her. Of course, he knows even less about etiquette than Mally does...

Frowning, Tarrant tries to dispel the stab of jealousy. Yes, Mally and Chessur and the Tweedles had been permitted to continue to tutor her in swordplay and whatnot. Unfortunately, due to the never-ending greed of the royal court for newer, shinier baubles to wear on their heads, Tarrant had been duty-bound to his workroom.

Placing the dessert fork in his water glass, Tarrant picks up a soup spoon and holds it parallel to the table with two hands. Idly, he glances at his heart-line finger, the finger Alice had...

_Now's not the time to think of that!_

Right, yes. Not the time _at all!_

Tarrant clears his throat and regards the small, blue dot on the pad of his finger. Staring yet doing his best not to remember, Tarrant turns his left hand over and blinks at a rather interesting development. There, circling the base of his heart-line finger is the lightest band of orange-y-pink. For the tiniest moment, he wonders at the odd color. Usually, Thrice a-Vow rings are light blue, slowly emerging after the first...

_Oh! But Alice's blood isn't blue, is it?_

Tarrant grins at his left hand.

_It's working! The vow accepts Alice even though she's not an Underlander!_

He _had_ been wondering about that.

But in the next instant, Tarrant feels a twinge of panic.

_It shouldn't have worked quite so well..._

What will Alice think when she realizes there's a light blue band circling her finger? What will he tell her? How will he explain? Of all the ridiculous accidents...!

_**Had**_ _it been an accident?_

Tarrant decides it's best not to think about that. And anyway, he won't perform the second exchange. No, absolutely not. ... Well, not without Alice's consent. Surely, she has no idea... And if she did, she wouldn't want to...

No, of course not.

And there's the unfortunate possibility that she might not be pleased with learning what they'd done... and Tarrant would really rather she not be furious with him again, despite how lovely she'd looked: disheveled, glaring, flushed...

_Time to examine another utensil,_ Tarrant decides.

Dinner arrives but the fuss doesn't die down any less despite the consumption of food and drink. Tarrant fidgets with his napkin in his lap and tries not to admire the salmon-y colored stripe circling his finger... too often.

He can hardly sleep that night, so tied up in so many different thoughts. The excitement he feels cannot be contained. It ought to be shared! He puts on his top hat and strides to the door countless times without actually leaving his rooms. At the last moment, he always reminds himself that Alice might not be happy about their vow. And besides, Alice _is __**working now! **_Tarrant cannot distract the Queen's Champion _now. _Not with the first duel taking place on the morrow!

No, no, it wouldn't do for him to tell her now.

_But you __**will**_ _tell her!_

Yes, of course. After the foreign guests have departed... When the castle is quiet again and she'll be able to sit with him in his workshop or he'll be able to sit with her under the trees near the croquet pitch... Yes, that would be much, _much_ better.

Eventually, Tarrant _does_ fall asleep, but when he opens his eyes he realizes he's slumped over his tea table, having never made it to bed. Blearily, he consults his useless pocket watch – _perhaps it's due for another buttering...?_ – and unsteadily gets to his feet and washes up.

It's not until he arrives at his workshop – without encountering _anyone _in the halls – and glances at a properly functioning clock that Tarrant realizes what time it is.

In the next instant, Tarrant slams the workshop door behind him and sprints to the courtyard, slipping on polished floors as he attempts to turn sharp corners and tripping over disgruntled rugs...

When he arrives at the courtyard, of course all of the best places for viewing the duel have been taken. Tarrant moves through the trees, looking for one that won't mind him climbing it. After a few moments, he spots a rather energetic-looking fellow with substantial branches and pulls himself up. As he settles himself on a bough and searches the clearing for any sign that the duel is about to start, a very distinct, cat-scented breeze swirls beside him.

"I was wondering when you'd arrive," Chessur says with a lazy blink.

"Have I missed anything?"

"Gossip, sniping, back-handed compliments, figurative back-stabbing, and more gossip," he lists dispassionately.

"Ah, excellent." Perhaps his timing hadn't been so bad after all.

He continues scanning the crowd, searching for the unicorn and Alice. When a furry paw presses against the back of his hand, Tarrant realizes he's been twisting his handkerchief in his hands rather... vigorously.

"She's going to be fine. Better than fine. Wonderful. Extraordinary. Spectacular," Chessur says with confidence.

Tarrant's mouth is too dry to manage a word in agreement and his neck is too stiff to nod.

"Nice promise-ring, by the way."

Tarrant growls, "Trust you to notice that with your great, greedy eyes."

"I'm curious as to the color. Perhaps I will ask Alice to see hers..."

"No! I... I mean, well..."

Chessur snickers. "Very well then. I'll let you leave Alice in the dark for a _bit _longer."

Tarrant feels guilt well up within him at the subtle threat. But, at that moment, Lord Hornsaver and Alice appear at opposite ends of the clearing. Tarrant's stomach lurches at the sound of polite applause. It seems as if his odd stomach ache has found him again. And in a tree, no less.

Nivens McTwisp, recruited especially for administering the duels, makes a very long announcement that Tarrant doesn't pay a bit of attention to. He's busy examining Alice. _His_ Alice. In vain, he drops his gaze to her pale hand, but, of course, he's too far away to see if there's a light blue line around her finger.

"Queen's Champion! Challenger! Choose your weapon!"

Peripherally, Tarrant is aware of Nivens hopping back to the edge of the field to crouch beside the queen. Hornsaver unsheathes the broadsword slung across his back. Alice unbuckles the belt holding her sword scabbard, pulls her own blade out and tosses the now-useless leather off to the side. Nivens twitches as it lands just inches from him.

Tarrant curls his hands around the nearest branches as the unicorn takes a step forward and bows. Alice reciprocates and then they begin circling each other. Despite his worry, with each measured, graceful, controlled step Alice takes, Tarrant feels the warmth of excitement and anticipation build within him.

The unicorn lunges and Alice neatly steps aside, arcing her sword and smacking him in the shoulder with the flat side of it. The crowd twitters in appreciation.

Turning, Hornsaver regards the Queen's Champion with a flat expression. He lowers his chin just a bit, his horn glimmering in the sunlight. The fight is on. Tarrant can't close his eyes, can't blink as Alice and the unicorn exchange blows.

"He's testing the strength of your arm, Alice. Don't let him wear you down!" he whispers urgently.

The crowd gasps when Hornsaver attacks, suddenly, and rather than run backwards, Alice drops and rolls past him.

"You're faster than that," Tarrant muses.

Again, the metal of their swords collide in the courtyard. The unicorn executes a bit of fancy footwork and the insipid audience sighs and gasps their appreciation. Alice doesn't bother with fancy footwork. Nor does she bother with fancy twirls or twists. She takes her turn charging the unicorn.

Tarrant bites his knuckle. "No, no! He's drawing you in!"

Suddenly, Alice backs off. She tilts her head to the side and swings her sword casually through the air as if inviting the unicorn to take his best shot. He does his best. Tarrant knows the unicorn's form is perfect. Perhaps too perfect. It's obvious the creature's never fought on a battlefield before. Tarrant tries not to hold that against him. No, the fact that Hornsaver is wielding a sword against Alice is more than enough to damn him in Tarrant's opinion.

The unicorn gets his blade underneath Alice's and Tarrant tenses.

"D'_nae_ let go o' tha' sword!" he growls.

She doesn't. She goes with the motion – allowing the unicorn's attempt at disarming her to pull her toward his unprotected flank – and slams her shoulder into Hornsaver. He stumbles, giving her the one instant she needs to regain control of her weapon. Again, they begin circling.

Again, Alice is a bit slower than Tarrant knows her to be.

"Smart girl," Chessur muses. "She has four more duels. It won't do to give away all her secrets this early."

"'Twon' be _smart_ if she gets herself run through!"

Another clash of swords echoes in the courtyard before Chessur replies: "She won't."

As the duel progresses with periodic lulls during which Alice and the unicorn circle each other, Tarrant realizes Alice is not drawing out this tournament to torture him. She remains calm, in control. She's doing her job. She's giving that pompous puff ball the chance to show of his battle skills.

When a small silver bell rings out after perhaps the longest twenty minutes of Tarrant's life, Alice's demeanor changes immediately. Reluctantly, it seems, the unicorn steps down as she charges. With a flurry of lunges, parries, and thrusts, Alice – quick as a scorpion strike – knocks Hornsaver's sword aside.

That should have been the end of it.

The audience begins to applaud.

Hornsaver lowers his chin and Tarrant feels his stomach ache freeze rock-solid in his chest. The sunlight glimmers off of his horn in the instant before he grabs Alice's wrist, immobilizing her sword. Tarrant watches that horn descend toward her face, his own shout of warning lost somewhere in the frozen wasteland of his chest. The crowd gasps in alarm, but Tarrant doesn't hear them.

Alice's left fist slams up into the unicorn's chin and a glint of metal appears between her fingers as she presses a throwing knife to Hornsaver's throat.

Tarrant watches, the ice in his chest shattering under the fury of his rage, as the unicorn takes his time releasing Alice's right wrist and stepping back. Tarrant barely sees the bow Alice and her opponent execute to each other and the audience before Hornsaver leaves the field.

Alice approaches the queen and, re-sheathing and donning her sword, takes her place at the queen's shoulder, her face expressionless despite her victory.

McTwisp hops forward to conclude the ceremony, but Tarrant's too enraged to pay attention.

"I told you she'd be fine," Chessur purrs. "You were an excellent teacher, Tarrant. And the rest of us aren't so bad if I do say so myself."

"If..." Tarrant replies, glancing in the cat's direction, "you think that's goin' teh stop me from _rippin' out that foul, __**back-stabbin', underhanded, CHEATIN'**_ –"

"_Hatter!_"

Tarrant succeeds in swallowing back the tail-end of his rage. "I'm fine."

"Indeed. Keep it together until you're away from the gossipmongers, would you?"

He does. Tarrant keeps his rage and temper in check until he makes it back to his workroom. And _there_ he doesn't so much as _lose_ his temper as he becomes _lost_ in his rage. A great number of hats do not survive the following hour.

And, as a final insult, Tarrant is once again separated from Alice, forced to watch her from across the crowded ball room as they celebrate Hornsaver's valiant fight. Alice's contributions are mentioned in passing. The unicorn's dishonorable cheating ignored. This time, he doesn't bother to accept a glass of Wassailin, not even for viewing Alice through.

Tarrant stands rigidly in his new, still-stiff, still-starch-smelling suit and watches the proceedings with yellow eyes. He watches _his_ Alice endure the festivities. And she _does_ endure them. Despite the reassuring smile Alice gives the queen, Tarrant knows her well enough to see that she's tired.

So is he.

He's tired of this game they have to play. He wants to march over there and take her in his arms and feel her hold onto him again. Nothing could be more real, more perfect than that. His want is immeasurable, but he behaves.

_Alice is working. Mustn't get in the way._

But oh, how he wants to!

He glares at the powdered, primped, pompous people in the ballroom and counts them: four. Four more duels. Four more threats against Alice's life. Four more days exactly like this one – except perhaps worse, depending on the challenger's skills and tendency toward cruelty or, in the unicorn's case, pride – before Tarrant will be able to breathe around this bloody stomach ache again.

"Remember your promise, Alice. You fight as hard has you must to win. No less. Never any less."

Perhaps she hears him.

Perhaps she doesn't.

Tarrant just hopes she keeps her promise. This one is far more important than any of the others. The promise silently circling the third finger on his left hand included.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5]


	17. Book 1, The Champion and the Hatter, 1

_**Chapter Six: The Champion and the Hatter**_ [Scene 1 of 3]

"Alice, are you all right?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I'm fine." Alice doesn't mention the bruises on her right wrist or the swelling knuckles on her left hand. All things considered, she'd rather forget about them entirely. But with four more duels left, Alice knows she'll have to deal with them before going to bed.

"Did your tutors congratulate you?" the queen asks.

Alice chuckles. "Yes. Mally was very impressed." Alice remembers her hatpin-swishing enthusiasm as the dormouse had reenacted the fight with commentary. "Chessur and the Tweedles seemed pleased." There'd been handshakes from those three. Even her former opponents among the queen's guard had given her a salute.

The queen smiles. "Wonderful. And now, let's see... it's nearly midnight, so it's time for..."

Alice sighs. Yes, it's time for her to run the gauntlet of facetious, simpering faces back to her room for the night. _This won't last forever_, she reminds herself. _In two weeks or so, they'll all be gone – things will be back to normal – and I won't have to hide from Tarrant any more._

She doesn't like to think of it as hiding, but she knows that's what she's doing. She wants to see him, more than anything, too much. If any one of the queen's court noticed her looking in the Hatter's direction, the secret would be out. Alice isn't sure what would come of that, but whatever it would be, it wouldn't be good.

Alice opens her mouth to bid the queen goodnight when there's a knock on the door.

"Enter!" Mirana calls.

The door opens and there stands Tarrant, looking exhausted and frazzled. He stops short just inside the door, his eyes widening when he sees Alice standing not two arm-lengths in front of him.

"You're right on time for my hat fitting," Mirana announces. "I'm sure it's beautiful, Tarrant. Just leave it, oh... anywhere, I suppose, before you go." The queen then floats up the staircase to her bedroom. "Good night, Alice. Good night, Tarrant." The queen's bedroom door closes and silence descends.

When the door to the queen's tower parlor swings closed on its own, the sound jars both Alice and the Hatter. He drops the hatbox clutched in his hand to the floor and Alice crosses the distance between them.

His eyes are green now, she notes. Alice smiles wearily before lowering her forehead to his shoulder with a sigh. His arms wind around her and her hands find their way to his waist. Propriety be dammed; she's too tired to bother with it.

Tarrant seems to understand. His embrace holds her up. Alice wonders if hers, weak as it is, helps him at all.

"Let's not think about today," she says.

"All right."

"And let's not think about the next ones, either." Oshtyer, especially, worries her. Those shrewd eyes do not engender trust.

"Are you all right?"

Alice starts to tell him not to worry, but changes her mind. Of all the people in her new life, here is the one who knows her best. She doesn't want that to change. "No," she says. "I need some ointment, I think."

Tarrant gently turns her toward the sofa in front of the hearth and Alice notices a familiar-looking jar on the side table. "How did that get there?" she asks.

"It flew, of course," the Hatter says with a friendly grin. "No feet."

Alice huffs a brief chuckle.

Tarrant scoops out a bit of paste and kneels in front of her on the rug. "Where does it hurt, lass?"

She pulls her shirtsleeve up and slides the gauntlet off her right wrist. Looking at her arm now, hours after the fact, makes her wince. Magenta and blue bruises are starting to color her skin, darker in the place where the sheathed throwing knife had been pressed into the muscles and tendons.

Tarrant's eyes flash yellow and Alice places her hand on the back of his neck. When he glances up at her, she smiles and the moment of anger passes. He gently rubs the lotion into her skin, intent on the simple task. Slumped against the sofa cushions, Alice can do little other than appreciate the experience.

"An' th'other?" he asks some time later.

Alice opens her eyes briefly. "Sorry," she mumbles. "Sleepy."

"'Tis all right." Without prompting, the Hatter takes her left hand in his and gently smoothes the paste over her swollen knuckles. It seems to her that he spends a very long time massaging her hand. And perhaps she imagines it, but she thinks his fingertips trace over the base of her ring finger, back and forth, several times.

"Alice?"

"Hmm?"

He clears his throat softly. "Shall I help you to your room?"

She shakes her head. "I'll sleep here. 'S closer."

There's a long pause and then hesitant hands unbutton her left cuff and remove the other gauntlet. After her left wrist is freed, there's another long pause and then those hesitant hands fumble at her waist. She hears belt buckles clinking and her knife and sword are pulled away. Another long moment of nothingness follows and then those hands are at her feet, taking off her shoes and unbuckling the knives she keeps strapped to her ankles. When those are set aside, the hands return and arrange her on the sofa.

"Belt," she manages, reaching for it.

"I'll do it."

Alice relaxes against the sofa and lets Tarrant remove the belt with the concealed garrote. She lifts her hips slightly to help make the task slightly easier when she feels the belt start to slide away.

"Tarrant," she whispers, feeling her body start to drift off.

A hand brushes across her forehead. "Aye?"

"Thank you..."

"Ye're welcome, Alice."

She feels his hand smooth her hair and his lips press against her forehead. A moment of rustling cloth and footsteps later and then a door opens and closes in the distance. On the sofa of the queen's private parlor, Alice tumbles into sleep.

* * *

[End of Chapter 6: Scene 1 of 3]


	18. Book 1, The Champion and the Hatter, 2

_**Note:**_ The following contains adult themes. (There's a non-explicit reference to non-consensual groping.) Maybe most authors wouldn't bother with a warning for that, but I'm paranoid and I just thought I'd better warn you anyway...

_**

* * *

**_

_**Chapter Six: The Champion and the Hatter**_ [Scene 2 of 3]

Alice had been right to be wary of the shifty-eyed Oshtyer: Of all the suitors, she had expected him to be the least honorable.

Alice doesn't enjoy being right about that.

The other duels had been refreshingly civilized:

The lion, Prince Avendale, had been a perfectly poised and level-headed opponent. Not only that, but his performance during the interview had impressed her as he'd answered her silliness with creativity and humor and the occasional rumbling laugh. He'd chosen fighting staffs for his duel and despite a few dubious moments, mostly due to Alice overbalancing, she'd managed the fight well enough for Avendale to thank her for the opportunity to show his skills after he'd conceded the victory. Alice had noticed that Tarrant's eyes had not flashed yellow across the banquet hall that night.

Prince Jaspien had chosen the broadsword and, unfortunately, he not been all that skilled at it. Alice had been repeatedly alarmed by his wild swings and off-balance lunges. She'd managed to stay out of his way when she'd had to and she'd done her best to make sure his attacks had connected safely whenever she could. She'd genuinely felt sorry for the man. Even though he'd produced the singularly most boring interview, the taciturn prince hadn't deserved to be publicly humiliated in the duel. When the silver bell had rung, Alice had wished she'd had more experience with swordplay – if she'd had she would have tried to make his defeat look like a valiant attempt to win nonetheless. But she hadn't so she couldn't. Tarrant had been late arriving to that banquet and had glared at the man all night.

And then it had been Oshtyer's turn. He'd done his best to demean Alice during the interview, criticizing her choice of questions in a gentle, patronizing tone. The man had never struck Alice as a fighter, more of a plotter. And so, on the day of the duel, Alice had cast a wistful glance at the armor she'd worn to fight the Jabberwocky before heading for the courtyard. She'd even hoped to get a glimpse of the Hatter and a private moment to whisper: "Have your throwing knives close by, please." But alas, it had not been meant to be...

"Challenger, stand down!" Alice hears McTwisp screech. The beefy arm around her neck doesn't budge. Oshtyer's _other_ hand, however, gropes various areas of Alice's anatomy that he _never would have dared to touch __**had she been born a man!**_

Alice's dagger is long gone, but luckily so is Oshtyer's. Still, that doesn't mean he's not carrying extras... just like Alice. She doesn't want to use them unless she has to. It'd be bad form. Cheating. But, still, it's preferable to dying... or having her shirt ripped open before all and sundry!

However, Alice hadn't learned wrestling for nothing.

Her elbow jabs back, connecting with some part of his torso. She shoves the edge of her shoe against his leg and does her best to peel the skin right off his shin. His arm twitches a bit looser and Alice grits her teeth, braces herself and slams her head back. There's sickening crunch and a litany of oaths but Alice is already rolling away from him, coughing, wheezing, blinking back the tears blurring her vision. Gaining her feet, she surreptitiously glances about for her lost weapon. From the back of the stunned-silent crowd, a familiar brogue shouts, "Alice, high tea!"

Looking toward the eight o'clock position – where it would be from Tarrant's position in that tree – she spots it in the grass. Keeping her eye on Oshtyer, she circles around him and scoops it up. The man is still swearing, clutching his broken nose. There's a knife in his hand now, too. It looks very much like the one he'd been using earlier, but Alice is pretty sure it's not one in the same.

Wretched, underhanded son of a...

And the silver bell hasn't been rung yet.

Alice isn't inclined to wait for it this time.

They start circling each other again. She dodges several attacks, not daring to roll under his arm. She's too tired, too shaken to try anything fancy or well-coordinated.

Oshtyer tenses for another attack. This time, when he lunges, she focuses on the movement and manages to get a good grip on his forearm. She crushes his foot beneath her boot, kicks his knee out from under him and, as he tumbles to the ground, she uses her grip on his arm for leverage, forcing him onto his stomach. With a bit of pressure applied to his wrist, the knife drops from his fingers. Alice doesn't _have to_ set the tip of her blade between the bones of the back of his neck, but it feels _really __**good**_ to do it anyway!

Panting, Alice listens as McTwisp calls the match and summons the healers. Once the physicians have approached, Alice climbs off of the offensive man a quickly as possible, not bothering to be gentle. She puts herself between him and the queen and keeps her eyes on both him and his equally suspicious ministers.

It's not until after she's left the field with the queen safely ensconced in the protective formation of her guard that Alice feels shock start to set in. After such a blatant disregard for propriety, it's understandable that the queen would retreat to her rooms until Oshtyer and his delegates have been escorted off the premises. Alice damns the nosey courtiers and their gossip to hell and heads directly for the Hatter's rooms.

"You again?" the keyhole yawns.

"Shut up." Alice flings the door open and kicks it closed.

She thinks she hears a faint exclamation from the offended lock. She doesn't care. Alice storms back and forth in the room, pacing furiously. Every once in a while, her fist strikes out at the imagined face of her most recent opponent.

"Should have... should have..."

There are dozens of things Alice should have done differently in that duel.

"Should have..." Alice pulls a throwing knife from the sheath on her arm. She balances it across her fingers for a moment. Then, with a furious motion, she sends it across the room and into the wall. If Oshtyer had been standing there, it would have struck him in the face.

"A bit lower, maybe."

The second knife lands _considerably_ lower than the first.

"Try getting someone to marry you with _that_ problem," she snarls.

Hands fisted, she pivots to resume pacing and finds the Hatter standing just inside his own front door.

"Alice?" he asks.

Amazingly, his eyes are clear, rational green. A detached voice in Alice's mind whispers, _That's fine – you're angry enough for the both of you._

"That rotten, slimy, _evil, opportunistic, __**sadistic BASTARD**_!"

The Hatter says nothing.

"I should have disemboweled him! I should have torn his throat out! I should have broken his fingers one by one!" She pulls her fisted hands close to her chest, trying to keep her fury from ripping her apart. "I should have...! Should have...!"

Gritting her teeth, Alice looks up at Tarrant. "Why did I just _let him crawl back to wherever he'd __**come from**_?"

The walls absorb Alice's shouts. After her ears stop ringing, she notices that her breaths are exploding out of her like drumbeats.

"Alice?"

She struggles to calm down. "I'm fine."

Tarrant giggles and Alice feels her lips twitch in a helpless smile.

"I know," she whispers. "That's usually your line."

He clears his throat and ventures further into the room. His gaze quickly assesses her. "Is any of this blood yours?"

"It's blue, so I don't think so." Her attempt at sarcasm falls depressingly flat.

He takes her hand and leads her toward the sofa. Returning a moment later, he places a basin on the floor and then a familiar clay jar. The Hatter soaks a towel in the water the wrings it out. He collects her hands and gently scrubs them, attending to each knuckle and fingernail. Once finished, he washes her face and, when she leans forward on her elbows, he rubs the cloth against her neck as well.

"Thank you."

"Do you hurt anywhere?"

"Just my pride."

Tarrant lifts her face and drops his gaze to her throat.

Grudgingly, she asks, "Is it bruising?"

"Aye."

Alice gestures for the paste then sits still when Tarrant applies it himself instead of simply handing her the jar.

"Why aren't you in the midst of a screaming fury?" she asks him while he works.

"We can't both lose our heads," he says with a smile.

Alice laughs humorlessly. "There wouldn't be a stone left standing of this place if we did."

They lapse into silence for a few minutes. Alice lets Tarrant check her neck for other injuries and reevaluate her hands. And then: "Alice... why didn't you use your other knives?"

Eyes closed, she swallows. "I should have."

"But you di'nae."

"I considered it. He deserved it."

Tarrant clasps her hands in each of his and waits.

"He was such a wretched cheat I thought... if I go for my knives then so will he and then... What's to stop him from throwing one at the queen? Or, what if I hit her by mistake? Or someone else? I..." The nightmarish scenarios march through her head, one after the other.

"Hush. 'Tis al'right. Ye fought yer hardest. Ye did what ye had teh."

Alice opens her eyes.

Tarrant smiles. "An' ye _won._"

Alice marvels at the fact that she's not capable of refusing him a smile, even in this miserable situation. "Tarrant?"

"Aye?"

"Just out of curiosity, did you have any knives on you today?"

In answer, he shakes back his lace cuffs and Alice sees his own gauntlets strapped to his forearms, the left one with three throwing knives and the right with two. She reaches for his right arm.

"Where's the third one?"

Tarrant clears his throat and his gaze shifts guiltily toward the rather unfortunately-placed second knife that Alice had thrown at his wall. "It seems you and I were of the same mind on the nature of his punishment."

Alice gapes at him. He blinks back at her sheepishly. Then she snorts. Covering her face with her hands, she laughs until tears are streaming down her cheeks and her nose is running and her breaths are coming in great sobs and going out helpless hiccups. Tarrant giggles with her for a bit, then hands her his handkerchief for the rest.

* * *

[End of Chapter 6: Scene 2 of 3]


	19. Book 1, The Champion and the Hatter, 3

_**Chapter Six: The Champion and the Hatter**_ [Scene 3 of 3]

From the solarium terrace, there's a lovely view of the croquet pitch. Mirana's never bothered with it much. Croquet had always been her sister's pastime. As children, they'd rarely spent their free time together. Iracebeth had chased flamingoes and knocked about hedgehogs. Mirana had tried to give the trees singing lessons. She likes to think her efforts hadn't been wasted; the trees do sigh in rather nice counterpoint if someone gives them a one, two, _three_...

"Your Majesty?"

Mirana turns and smiles. "Hello, Tarrant. How are you?"

"I'm well..."

She takes note of his befuddled expression. She knows he's busy turning out hats for the courtiers and guests. (Well, the remaining guests: Hornsaver had excused himself after the second duel and Oshtyer, that repugnant creature, had been asked to leave the day before. She can't say she's sorry to see either of them go.)

"I realize you've much to do today, but I thought you and I could do with a break." Mirana motions for him to join her on the terrace. When he does, she lets him absorb the view for a few moments without interruption.

Below, one of the queen's rooks is facing off with Alice. Both are wielding spears. Off to the side, the Tweedles are providing commentary and criticisms.

"A bit less of that, now, Alice!"

"Unless you grow longer arms, that is."

"Don't over balance!"

"Or under balance, either, come to think of it."

Mirana lets Tarrant alone long enough for Algernon to enter and deliver the tea service. After the fish has left, Mirana says, "She's down there with her tutors and a volunteer from my guard every other morning. And even I can see she's improving."

"Of course, she is. She knew nothing before she faced the Jabberwocky." He frowns. "That sword saved her life."

"As did you."

"I started a battle," he replies, clearly remembering stepping between the beast and Alice to stab the Jabberwocky's tail. Mirana smiles at the elated expression on his face. Yes, she supposes of all of Underland's residents, Tarrant's right to face the Red Queen's forces had been the most legitimate.

But that time is not what the queen had been referring to.

"And you saved her again. Through the looking glass. And, again, after that." She shakes her head in wonderment. "When Alice told me you'd been teaching her... _wrestling_, that she'd injured your side with her _knee_ because you'd been _pinning her down_, I was utterly and completely _appalled._ I'd trusted you to prepare her for being my Champion, not teach a refined young lady to brawl like a... thug outside a Grobben pub."

Next to her, Tarrant doesn't look away from the activity on the croquet pitch. His shoulders curl in a bit. His expression is abashed.

"However," Mirana says, "_thank you_ for doing that. You saved her yesterday... again."

Tarrant clears his throat awkwardly. "I'm just a hatter, Your Majesty. Alice saved herself."

"With your foresight," she concludes.

In the unsettled silence that oscillates between them, the sounds of wooden spears clanking and clapping against each other drift up.

"Missed an opening there, Alice!"

"Pay attention, Champion!"

Mirana honestly has no interest in the game below, so she takes this opportunity to study her Hatter. He looks tired, true, but there's something about him. Something a bit more... demure. Or calm? Perhaps, centered? She looks him over, searching for any hint as to the source of this change.

When her gaze settles on his hands, pressed flat atop the low wall of the terrace, she feels a smile stretch her lips.

"Oh, goodness! Congratulations, Tarrant!" The Hatter startles and looks at her blankly for a moment before he notices the direction of her gaze and then he blushes. Delighted, Mirana says, "I take it, from the color of the ring, that your promised one is Alice?"

"Aye."

"That's wonderful. Truly."

_So that's what the Cheshire Cat had meant when he'd suggested I pay closer attention to Tarrant's hands and look for new developments...!_

"These past few weeks haven't been easy for either of you," she sympathizes. And she knows the next few months might not be any easier, either. She's yet to find a solution to the difficulties presented by the Trial of Threes. Mirana vows to devote all of her time and energy to that research as soon as Viscount Valereth has completed his challenge and the castle has been cleared of guests. Despite being his queen, Mirana knows she _owes_ this man her life. If he hadn't guided her horse away during the massacre on Horvendush Day...

The White Queen regards the man who had turned his back on his people to ensure her safety, the man who'd lead the resistance against the Red Queen's tyranny, the man who had protected Alice and had kept her safe right under Iracebeth's oddly disproportionately small nose...

Mirana owes Tarrant Hightopp a very great debt, indeed.

And, someday, she will find a way to repay him. Perhaps she will never be able to compensate him in full, but she will do what she can.

Mirana closes her eyes and sighs, accepting the possibility that Alice may have the right of it: both Mirana and Alice _owe _it to Tarrant to make sure the beast that decimated his clan – every hatter, apprentice, and babe – is not permitted to take anything more from him: not his home, nor his trade, nor his friends, nor his Alice, nor his sanity.

Sometimes, a line _must_ be drawn.

Mirana looks down at the faint, rosy promise-ring on Tarrant's finger.

_This _is the line, she realizes. _This _is the line that _must not_ be crossed. Not for crown or country or even the Oraculum. The queen will forsake all before she lets this man lose one more thing!

* * *

[End of Chapter 6]


	20. Book 1, The Trial of Threes, 1 of 3

_**Thank you, every one of my lovely reviewers! It makes my day to hear from you!**_

* * *

_**Chapter Seven: The Trial of Threes**_ [Scenes 1 & 2 of 5]

Alice stands with the queen, bidding farewell to Viscount Valereth, his vassals, and the courtiers. She does not smile or wave. After all, being pleasant to the queen's guests is not in her job description. And it's better not to encourage any of them to attempt friendship with the Queen's Champion, regardless. It's Alice's job to be dispassionate and objective in her service to the queen. Alice would have felt a pang of loneliness if not for the fact that every single one of them make her feel nauseous.

As the party disappears beyond the grand arch at the end of the cobblestone drive, the queen sighs happily. "Alone at last!"

Alice agrees, but she's a bit curious. "I don't suppose you'll consider any of them?"

"The suitors? Well... I suppose I'll keep in touch with Dale, er, Prince Avendale, I mean." Alice smiles at the wistful look in the queen's dark eyes. "It really is a pity he's a carnivore."

"They say opposites attract," Alice says as they head back into the castle.

"What an odd thing to say!"

"I suppose it is." Then, remembering one of the queen's comments about the Jabberwocky weeks ago, Alice muses cautiously, "But... we cannot see the stars without the night, can we?"

The queen gives Alice a startled look. "Very wise, Alice."

"I wish I could take credit, Your Majesty."

The queen laughs.

They continue up the stairs until Mirana reaches her office. There, Algernon, Pondish, Lakerton, and several other servants report that the castle rooms have been emptied. Forgotten items will be sent on to their owners posthaste and the rooms cleaned by the end of the day. After they hop or slither out, Mirana turns to Alice and, laying a hand on her shoulder, announces: "I hereby relieve you of your duties as Queen's Champion until further notice."

Alice returns her smile with more enthusiasm than she's felt all day.

"Go and visit Tarrant. It's nearly brillig."

"On Saturday," Alice adds. She very nearly rushes to the door but then remembers: "Tomorrow, shall I meet you in the Royal Library? After breakfast?"

"Yes, if you don't mind. It takes two heads twice as long to ache as one!"

Alice chuckles. "I'll be there."

And she is. Alice's days settle into a pattern: breakfast with the queen then research until lunch, which she usually takes to Tarrant's workshop, followed by a leisurely tea, then exercises on the croquet pitch with one of the queen's guard... unless it's a Wednesday. On Wednesdays, Alice practices fighting not one but two members of the guard at once. Sometimes Tarrant joins her and the queen for dinner and sometimes he doesn't. Alice often sees Mally, Thackery, and Chessur in the halls of the castle, coming and going. Probably visiting with the Hatter. Sometimes they arrive in time for teatime. Sometimes, that time belongs to just her and Tarrant.

The first month passes peacefully. Wonderfully. Alice thinks that if this is her new life, she could get used to it. Easily.

If only the research were going as well as everything else.

"Where is that volume on the Jabberwocky anatomy?" Alice asks one day. "I'd like to take a look at it again."

The queen shows her the way to the Royal Library of Alchemy and locates the correct volume. "I was sure you'd memorized this already, Alice."

"I'm sure I have. I just want to test my memory..." The lie is almost too easy to say.

She'd had to wait another four days before, finally, the friend she'd been needing to talk to had passed her in the hall.

"Hello, again, Alice. How odd to see you out and about before brillig. Have you misplaced your Tarrant?"

Alice valiantly fights the blush Chessur's suggestive tone provokes.

"No, I've not misplaced him. He's fine. I thought I'd have a word with you on the way to tea."

"A word, you say? Or a whole sentence?"

Alice smiles. "A conversation."

He pauses and hovers in the air. "And what would you wish to converse without your Tarrant knowing?"

Ignoring the personal comments, Alice waves Chessur into the alchemy library. "This," she says, pointing to a diagram of the Jabberwocky, "is what I'd like to discuss with you."

"Ah, yes. The Trial of Threes. It arrives in twenty-eight days, doesn't it?"

"Exactly. And... I've only fought the Jabberwocky the one time, so I was wondering if, you know, you could... with your abilities, I mean..."

"Hmm..." Chessur purrs thoughtfully, regarding the drawings from an upside-down position in the air. "An interesting challenge. I've never tried to learn a shape this way."

Which reminds Alice... "How did you learn the Hatter's?"

Chessur's grin is very, very wicked. "Perhaps on Tarrant's birthday, when it's perfectly acceptable to embarrass him as much as possible, I shall explain the process to you in complete, unabridged, crystal-clear detail."

Alice chokes. "I... think I can guess now..."

"I'm sure you've several ideas regarding the process running through your mind, but tell me, why must _this_ be kept a secret from your Tarrant? Wouldn't he be pleased to know you'll be prepared?"

"Well, it's not that I don't think he'd approve, I'd just thought it would be a bit much to know there's a copy of the Jabberwocky out there... I mean, after it..."

"Yes, a perfectly horrid Horvendush Day."

Alice nods. "Before I leave, I was thinking I might tell him I've practiced with the Bandersnatch, but he doesn't need to see this."

"Your attempts to protect him are unfailingly valiant, Alice. I shall do my best to replicate the beast. I may not get it exactly right... especially the voice, but..."

"Anything you can manage would be appreciated."

Chessur grins. "It will be my pleasure, Alice. Now, if you're ready to put away your protective tendencies..."

"Done. Let's go to tea."

Chessur smirks. "Indeed, let's not keep your Tarrant waiting..."

* * *

Two weeks later, Alice is sitting the Royal Library – again – with a dusty tome lying open across her lap – again – staring at the entry explaining the Trial of Threes – again – but this time she's seriously considering asking the Bandersnatch to be her Jabberwocky stand-in. She hasn't heard anything from Chessur and she's starting to become concerned. Yes, she'll take the Vorpal Sword with her to face the rebirth of the Jabberwocky, and yes, the sword already knows what it wants, and yes, Alice need only hold onto the blasted thing, but...

But the Jabberwocky will remember her. And it won't have forgotten her amateurish fumbling with the sword, either. And then there's the fact that nearly every time the Jabberwocky has faced the Vorpal Sword, the bearer has been different. _Insignificant_, the creature had called her. Alice supposes she was. And still is. After all, _she_ doesn't know how to fight something like the Jabberwocky. It's this ignorance she desperately needs to address. Fighting the Bandersnatch wouldn't be the same, but at least he'd be a closer approximation. Closer than a rook, a knight, and a bishop.

Alice leans her head in her hand and regards her left hand over the brittle pages of the book. Frustrated with the Trial of Threes, Alice adds to her compilation of unknowns by contemplating the odd, faint, bluish band circling her ring finger. She can't remember exactly when she'd noticed it: at dinner sometime after the first and before the fourth duel. She wonders if this is something she ought to be worried about. Don't some poisons change the color of one's skin? But why would it show up as such a uniform line and only in this one place?

Another mystery. And not important when compared to her confrontation with the Jabberwocky only two weeks away.

"Ah, what an interesting mark you have there!"

Alice twists in her chair and sighs at the Cheshire Cat's grin. "Chess! Have you managed it?"

He arcs his brows. "How abrupt! No 'Hello, handsome cat. How have you been?'"

"Hello, handsome cat. How have you been? And _have you managed it?_"

Chessur sighs. "You Uplanders have deplorable manners."

"Most of the time," Alice admits. "Sorry."

The cat twists through the air suddenly, rustling the pages of the Chronicle of Rites on her lap. "Interesting reading. I don't suppose you've indulged yourself in any entries other than the Trial of Threes? Many of Underland's most sacred rites are en-tome'd here..."

Alice glances down and reads the title of the next rite in the text: _Thrice a-Vow._ With an impatient snort, she closes the book and sets it aside.

"Out with it, Chess."

"Are you sure? This is a library, not a battlefield."

For a moment, Alice stares at him. And then a wide grin curves her lips. "You did it? I mean, you can do it?"

He grins. "Did you truly doubt I could?"

Wisely, Alice doesn't answer. Feeling hope for the first time in weeks, Alice suggests, "This evening, after dinner, let's find someplace... large and isolated."

"I'll meet you at the castle gates," he promises, and with a twirl and flick of his tale, disappears.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7: Scenes 1 & 2 of 5]


	21. Book 1, The Trial of Threes, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Seven: The Trial of Threes**_ [Scene 3 of 5]

Tarrant Hightopp knows what today is. Today is the day before the Trial of Threes. No one has mentioned it in over a week. He doesn't know what the queen and Alice think they're gaining by ignoring it. Or perhaps they aren't. Perhaps they simply do not speak of it in front of him.

He's concerned, of course. Alice must go alone to that broken battlefield and wait beside the headless corpse for its new body to emerge. A grisly task, at best. Terrifying to contemplate without the aid of her friends.

He regards Alice across the small table. He'd invited her to his rooms for dinner. It had seemed the only way to acknowledge what she must do on the morrow. He hates – _loathes, despises_ – the fact that _his_ Alice must negotiate a peace treaty with that monster. He hates – _abhors, detests_ – the fact that he cannot – _must not_ – stand with her.

Dinner had seemed like an inspired idea: let her know he knows without having to say the words! But as the evening drags on with only awkward – _flat, hopeless, arbitrary _– comments about the food, which neither of them are particularly interested in consuming, Tarrant begins to consider that he's made a mistake.

He searches for something to say. He should have _something_ to say to his Alice! He can feel the words swirling like a storm in his mind, but every utterance he considers is too trite, too depressing, too desperate. His Alice deserves better than paltry comments, poorly-timed riddles, and non sequiturs.

Conceding defeat, Tarrant pushes away his plate with a clatter. Alice looks up and watches as he rises and picks up his chair and sets it down at her side. Retaking his seat, he reaches for her hand – _and, by chance, it's the left one!_ – and encloses it in both his own.

"Tarrant..."

"Aye," he says. "I d'nae want ye teh go on th'morrow, but I ken ye must."

She stares at his hands, curled around hers, and nods.

"Promise teh fight as hard as ye must teh win."

"I promise."

Tarrant pulls her hand to his chest. Her body follows and the smell of her almost distracts him. "Promise ye'll return."

At this, she looks up, finally. She studies his eyes for a moment and he wonders which of his emotions they reflect now. His fear or his passion?

"And what will happen to you if I break that promise?" she whispers.

His hands tighten but she doesn't try to withdraw from his desperate grip. "I cannae say. Promise me, Alice. Please."

Tarrant would do anything to take that pain from her face, but he is only a hatter. And he's never mended a woman's spirit before. The moment stretches until Alice stands and matter-of-factly seats herself across Tarrant's lap.

He's too startled – _amazed, enraptured, exhilarated!_ – to focus on her words at first, but after a moment, they filter through the haze of wildness:

"I'll win and then I'll come back. I promise."

Tarrant frames her face with both hands. "Alice..."

Her expression is fierce, intent. He shudders helplessly.

He feels her hands on his jacket. "Here," she says, her stare expectant.

Tarrant looks down at the fabric pin she's holding up to him. He thinks he recognizes it as one of the half dozen he keeps concealed in his left lapel for emergencies.

"Take it," she says.

He does. And then he stares when she offers him her left hand, palm raised, fingertips turned toward him.

He shivers. The second exchange...

_You shoul'__**nae**__!_

He knows. But Alice... does she know? He shouldn't do it if she doesn't know. He should ask. He should tell her what it will mean if they do this...

His apprehension and desire swirl, froth, and churn inside him. Oh, how he wants this!

_Ask her if she understands!_

He intends to. He honestly does. But the look in her eyes is mesmerizing and her hand stays there, steady and sure, and he can see the shadow of her own promise-ring on the underside of her finger and he...

"Alice...?"

"Yes."

It's enough. He reaches for her hand, cradles it in his own, and applies the pin to her heart-line finger. Tarrant can hear his own heart pounding. His pulse rushes, overwhelming his ears. He leans forward and slides the pad of her finger between his lips. Again, the taste of her blood makes its acquaintance with his tongue. He notices the salt, of course, but something else. Something rich and metallic... He keeps his eyes closed even after he releases her.

When he feels her smaller hand around his own, Tarrant opens his eyes and watches as she presses the same pin against his fingertip. He stares, watching the blood dew. He'll have another small, blue mark there on the morrow...

His fingertip disappears between her lips and he stiffens, gasping. He watches, but part of him still cannot believe this is happening. Alice, _his_ Alice, is more _his _now than ever before. More _his _than _**not**_ _his_.

She gently laves the pinprick with her tongue and he hears a breathy groan. Belatedly, he realizes he must have been the one to make it as Alice's mouth is quite busy at the moment.

Watching him intently, she pulls his hand away, leans forward, and covers his lips with hers. Tarrant is defeated by the touch. His arms rise, pulling her closer, closer, closer still...

Her hands frame his face. Her tongue laps at the seam of his mouth. He denies her nothing. He thinks of nothing except the miracle of her here, in his arms, _his_. He strokes her tongue with his own, welcoming it in his mouth, then chases hers as it retreats. His fingers bury themselves in her hair and slide between her vest and shirt to rest against her back. And she _holds onto __**him!**_

Tarrant savors her acceptance and this second kiss continues on. He knows he must stop.

_**Stop now! Nae more must be taken! Not yet!**_

No, no, he can't have her. Not yet. This is only the second exchange, but he's not sure if he _can_ stop.

_Alice..._

His hands clench.

_Help me..._

He knows he could be hurting her; he's pushing her back against the table. In another instant, he'll have her laid out on it and then...

_**STOP!**_

Alice tears her mouth away and gasps. Tarrant lowers his forehead to her neck and pants helplessly against her collar. He can see the vague outline of her breasts as they rise and fall with her wild breaths. He closes his eyes.

"Violet, again," she murmurs.

He manages a tiny nod.

"I think I know what that means now."

He giggles. She's still seated across his lap. There's no doubt she can feel _him_ as easily as he can feel _her_ pressing _just __**there**_... Alice laughs with him and Tarrant lets the rest of his tension fall away from him. He leans back in his chair and collects Alice's hands in his again.

"Thank you, Alice."

She smiles and combs his hair with her fingers, smoothing it down. Tarrant has a vague memory of her hands clenching in it and struggles to keep his mind in the present only.

"I'll keep this promise," she tells him. "I've sworn an oath in blood, and sealed it with a kiss. There'll be no breaking it now."

The words reverberate in him, making him shiver. How odd of her to describe the second exchange like that. Almost as if...

"I'll go tomorrow and I'll fight as hard as I must. And I'll come back."

Tarrant manages a smile, but the confusion he feels... the confusion manages _him_. A short while later, he escorts Alice to her room but never once does he find the words to ask her why she'd called the second exchange a blood oath. _Perhaps it's an Uplandian custom_, he surmises. Although, the thought doesn't help him get any rest. All night, he chases sleep and all night, it eludes him.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7: Scene 3 of 5]


	22. Book 1, The Trial of Threes, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Seven: The Trial of Threes**_ [Scenes 4 & 5 of 5]

At dawn, Mirana meets Alice at the castle gate. For a moment, she simply watches as Alice pats the Bendersnatch and scratches behind his ears.

"Alice..." she begins.

With a final pat, her Champion turns. "You Majesty?"

Mirana opens her mouth to give the order to offer an alliance, or, at the very least, a truce. The words don't come. "I trust you to do what you believe is best for those you love," the queen whispers.

A triumphant light shines in Alice's dark eyes. "Yes, Your Majesty."

The queen watches as Alice mounts the Bandersnatch. She can see the Vorpal Sword as well as a bag of provisions slung across the young woman's back. Frowning, she puts out a hand to stop the Bandersnatch from taking off.

"Where's Tarrant? Wouldn't he want to... see you off?"

"Don't worry. There's no need for good-byes. I promised him."

With that, Alice's leg nudges the Bandersnatch and, with a great huff, he gallops off into the murky morning.

The queen watches her go, hand still raised.

_What have I done?_ she wonders. _If Alice kills the Jabberwocky again, all hope is lost for the next Trial of Threes..._ The Jabberwocky's grudge is not a meek or mild thing.

But how could she have denied the Hatter what little peace she can offer him? How can she betray one so loyal? Mirana hopes Alice will try, nonetheless, to broker peace. She hopes, but she knows it's too much to expect success.

Sighing, she turns back to the castle. She has quite a bit of correspondence and other business to attend to today, despite the date. That ridiculous Wooing Rite has put her woefully behind schedule. Sometimes she wonders why, exactly, she'd wanted to be queen. Certainly, she'd had more time to spend in her laboratory when her sister had been in power. Of course, leaving Iracebeth in power would have been beyond cruel and inhumane... to everyone in Underland.

The morning seems to be galumphing backwards for Mirana. The stack of papers on her desk seems to be growing taller despite the fact that no new ones have been delivered. She almost wishes she could be up in her rooms with Pondish and Algernon, sorting through the hats and hatboxes to be returned to Tarrant for refitting, reconfiguring, or recycling. After all, as queen, she is not permitted to wear the same creation twice. A pity, really. She's quite fond of some of them.

When lunch arrives via Lakerton, the queen considers taking it down to the hat workshop to see how Tarrant is doing.

Just as she opens her mouth to request that very thing, a very harried Hatter crashes into her office. Startled, Mirana leans back in her chair as he storms across the room in wordless fury. She's never seen his eyes that particular color of rage before.

"Tarrant?"

He says nothing. Behind his shoulder, the Cheshire Cat hovers with a worried scowl. Mirana jumps when he slams something on the tabletop between them and Mirana gapes at what could only be the Oraculum – the Oraculum that she'd hidden in a hatbox in the back of her closet for spring nightgowns.

She spares a brief thought to having a word with Pondish and Algernon about sorting through her unmentionables without permission, but focuses when Tarrant wordlessly jabs a finger at the illustration for today.

Mirana leans over the document and gasps.

"But this...!"

"Is not possible, I know," Chessur says. "She's been training for the last two weeks to avoid that very fate."

Tarrant pivots and focuses his burning orange-red eyes on the cat. "Trainin' how?"

"Well, that is, I..." He looks from Tarrant's intimidating stare to the queen's befuddled expression. "She presented me with Your Majesty's copy of Jabberwocky Anatomae and I... learned its shape. We've been meeting after dinner for the last fortnight..."

Mirana gapes. "You learned the Jabberwocky's shape?"

"Yes, for Alice."

She blinks and looks down at the scroll. Her eyes tear as she watches the Jabberwocky leaning over Alice's prostrate figure at the battlefield. The Vorpal Sword and the shield have been tossed aside.

"There's more, I'm afraid," Chessur continues.

Frantically, Mirana unrolls the scroll a bit more and stares at the image of Mamoreal... or what had _once been_ Mamoreal. She sinks into her chair, struggling for air.

"I've destroyed us all," she says.

"_Or just her!_" Tarrant screams. "_Why di'ye have teh demand th' truce? Don' ye see it'll kill her 'afore she even –_"

Bracing her arms against the edge of her desk, Mirana finds the strength to stand and shouts back, "_I did __**not**_ _order Alice to negotiate! I told her to protect the ones she loves!_"

The silence is somehow worse than the noise, she notes.

Tarrant stares at her, frozen. And then:

"Call her back!" he orders.

Mirana stares at him. "I... can't. She took the Bandersnatch at sunrise. She'll be there by now and the third and a third hour is approaching..." She consults the clock. "There's no time, Tarrant. We must evacuate the castle –"

Tarrant slams his hands against her desk. "_**D'nae tell me there'snae TIME!**_"

"_YOU!_" he roars, turning on Chessur, shaking with fury. "Does the Jabberwocky fly or nae?"

"Er, yes. Yes, it flies."

"Then you're takin' me teh the battlefield."

Tarrant storms from the room. To retrieve his broadsword, the queen imagines. She shares a shell-shocked look with the Cheshire Cat.

He gulps. "Tarrant thinks I'm going to fly him to the battlefield as _the Jabberwocky?_"

"It would appear so." Overhead, Mirana hears a door slam and heavy footsteps cross the room. "And if I were you, I'd be ready to go by the time he gets done up there."

Chessur doesn't need to hear any more. In an instant, he's disappeared.

* * *

Alice takes in the desolate, stone checkerboard and the dark, skeletal shape at the base of the ruined tower in the distance. She draws in a deep breath and gathers her courage. Bringing her leg over the Bandersnatch's neck, Alice carefully slides to the ground, trying not to get any of his fur caught in her armor.

She takes a minute to stand next to him, her hand against his furry jaw. He'll be the last friendly face she'll see until her task has been completed. She's in no hurry to send him away.

"Grrrb?" he asks.

Alice pats him. "Yes, yes, it's fine." She sighs. There's no point in putting it off. "Go on now," she tells him.

His great, jaundiced eyes roll in her direction, expressing his doubt.

"I'll see you later, Bandy."

With a huff, he turns and gallops off into the forest. Alice hopes he won't go too far as she might really want a ride back to Mamoreal when this is all over with. Who knows how long she'll have to run, dodge and hack away before she prevails?

She takes another deep breath and heads for the Jabberwocky carcass across the battlefield. Judging from the position of the sun in the sky, it's just gone lunch.

Doing her best not to think of what Tarrant must be doing, who he might be having tea with, which hats he's currently working on, Alice picks her way over the ruins and finds a series of fallen pillars and chunks of stone that provide the best protection in the area. She pulls her satchel over her head and, stomach churning, sets the bread and fruit it contains aside untouched. She fights better on an empty stomach anyway.

Alice sits down on the cold, weathered stone and, with her shield at her side and the Vorpal Sword in her hands, waits for the Jabberwocky to awaken.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7]


	23. Book 1, The Jabberwocky, 1 of 2

_**Thank you!**_ A BIG, HUGE, WONDERFULOUS, HUGGLISH "THANK YOU" to everyone who has reviewed so far. Reviews = love and I absolutely _adore_ hearing from you!

* * *

_**Chapter Eight: The Jabberwocky**_ [Scene 1 of 2]

The very worst moment in Tarrant Hightopp's past is the instant he'd stood in the center of his clan's modest village, right where the may pole should have been, right where the children should have been playing, right where his family should have been celebrating on that beautiful day. The very worst moment in his past had been standing there in the burnt brown landscape and seeing... nothing.

(He'd lost days after that. In fact, he suspects that's when he'd so offended Time and his pocket watch had been cursed to show only six o'clock forevermore.)

The very worst moment in Tarrant Hightopp's _future_ had unrolled right in front of him. Chessur had been complaining about the scones – "Too dry. Again! Who makes these things? I thought you said Thackery hopped off last week. Has he reemployed himself here already?" – and Tarrant had been sorting through the stack of hatboxes that had just been delivered.

It had been excellent timing; he'd needed something to distract him from the fact that Alice wouldn't be coming to lunch today. He'd needed something to distract him from the _reason_ she wouldn't be there. Every time he'd thought of the Trial of Threes, he'd felt a stab of despair incomparable to anything he'd ever experienced.

_You were supposed to help her find a way around it!_

"There must be another option. We'll find it," she'd said the day she'd told him of her decision to be the Queen's Champion on a permanent basis.

Another option... True, there _must _be one. But Tarrant hadn't found it for her despite the weeks of thought he'd put into it. He looks up at the clock – this clock belongs to the queen and Time would never deny _her_ – and knows that at this moment, Alice is on her way to the battlefield to negotiate with that... creature that had destroyed his people.

_Why are you here? You should be __**with HER!**_

On this day, Alice – _his Alice!_ – will be offering that vile creature amnesty in reward for _killing and __**burning**_ _and __**DESTROYING!**_ And there is nothing to be done about it. As Queen's Champion, Alice cannot disobey the queen's orders even if she wants to. Not without breaking her promise, and the breaking of a promise of _that sort – _the Royal Decree sort – would be very **bad**.

The _knowing_ that things would have to be _this way_ has been torturing him unrelentingly. First, in subtle silence during the final days leading up to the Trail of Threes. But then, on _this _day – the day of the confrontation – he'd been desperate to do _anything_ to avoid those wild, despairing, infuriating thoughts. Sorting through the queen's old hatboxes and ignoring Chessur hadn't been his first choice, but then, he'd never really had much of one when it came to this particular cog in Fate's machine.

Tarrant had just set aside a red sunhat and had moved on to the next box when, upon lifting the lid, he'd been surprised to discover a hat that had very closely resembled the Oraculum. Which had been quite odd, because Tarrant could not recall _making_ such a hat. Although he can't be sure that he's _never_ made a hat like this one, he had thought it odd to find it in a hatbox he remembers delivering to the queen himself. And at the time, it had most definitely _not _contained an Oraculum Hat.

He'd lifted out the scroll – _perhaps it's not a hat after all?_ – and had turned around.

"Oh, I say. Is that the...?" Chessur had choked around a scone he'd just announced wasn't worthy of being used for a bathing sponge.

"Does it look like the Oraculum to you as well?" Tarrant had asked, mildly in spite of his growing unease. And then he'd opened it and the worst, the very _**worst**_ _moment of his future_ had been laid out before him in vivid detail.

Given the fact that no one had deigned to inform him differently, it had been only natural for him to assume that the queen's orders would be Alice's downfall.

_That bloody truce,_ he'd thought as he'd charged up to the Royal Office. It had been his last coherent thought until the queen had admitted defeat.

_"I've destroyed us all..."_

_"I told her to protect the ones she loves!_"

Tarrant Hightopp understands now. He remembers Alice's vow:

_"I_ _will not let you be hurt."_

He remembers her promise:

_"I'll win and then I'll come back."_

He curls his fingers tighter around the scrap of leather he'd thrown around Chessur's neck for a harness and knows exactly what he'd see if he looked down at his left hand. He'd see the darkening band of red across his finger with its first tendrils beginning to show. He'd see the weaving of her blood into his heart line. He'd see his future. Lost before he'd barely grasped it.

"A little—tight—Hatter!"

Tarrant growls at Chessur's complaint but forces his grip to relax. The ungainly body of the Jabberwocky lurches through the air. Obviously, this is not something Chessur had taken the time to explore very thoroughly during his nighttime duels with Alice.

He bites back his complaints; after all, flying _is _faster than running or even racing on horseback. Tarrant grits his teeth as another awkward flap of the Jabberwocky's wings makes his stomach lurch.

"Ye can a'least belch purple flame, cannae ye?" he hollers.

"Flame?" Chessur nearly meows in affront. It's a strange sound to be sure, coming from a pitch-black, scaly nightmare of a flying lizard. "I learned this form from anatomy drawings! How exactly do you think I was supposed to pick up how to manufacture _flame?_"

"So, ye're goin' teh be completely useless," he yells over the wind.

"Lower your voice. I can see the battlefield just beyond those trees."

As the checkered battlefield unfurls beneath them, Tarrant Hightopp finds himself in a quandary. Here, in this moment, he must make a choice. (A rather inconvenient time to be making choices, but there's no avoiding it!) As he sees the long, knobby, undulating body of the _true_ Jabberwocky rise up in the air, Tarrant finds himself torn between avenging the worst moment of his past and preventing the worst moment of his future. On this day, there is only room for one or the other.

A flash of silver gleams in the air then arcs far and wide, clattering against the stones. The Vorpal Sword now lies a hopelessly great distance from its bearer. The Jabberwocky opens its jaws and spews that hateful purple flame. The force of it pushes the Champion back and knocks the shield from her arm. As they draw closer, Tarrant watches her struggle to her feet and dive behind a nearby pillar. The Jabberwocky moves to pursue.

_Too late! __**Too late!**_

Tarrant grits his teeth and makes his choice. The choice he'd already made. The only choice he _could_ have made.

He chooses Alice.

* * *

[End of Chapter 8: Scene of 2]


	24. Book 1, The Jabberwocky, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Eight: The Jabberwocky**_ [Scene 2 of 2]

Panting, Alice crouches behind the pillar and struggles to catch her breath. Had the Jabberwocky been that fast when she'd fought it three and a third years ago? Had the force of the blast of fire been so strong? Like throbbing, lavender lightning? She doesn't think so.

She knows she's delaying the inevitable. She will die here, on this battlefield, defeated in the rematch _she_ had sought. She'd come here, she'd made a choice between the Jabberwocky and Tarrant, and somehow, it's all gone horribly, terribly wrong.

"Hide all you like, pathetic bearer. It will not save you!"

Alice doesn't disagree.

She can feel the ground tremble with every step the creature takes. Closer, closer, closer still...

_I can't survive this._

Alice closes her eyes with the sudden knowledge that she will break this promise – the most important one she's made thus far. She will not fight as hard as she must. She cannot fight at all. Her hands clench into fists. She knows _these_ hands will accomplish nothing against the Jabberwocky. This fight is finished. And Alice will lose.

_I can't keep my promise,_ she thinks. Regret clogs her throat, hardens her chest.

There's only one choice left to be made: to hide behind bits of rock or face the consequences of her actions.

She stands. Legs shaking, she moves away from the dubious shelter of the fallen pillar.

"Ah, there you are."

Alice lifts her chin until she meets the Jabberwocky's eyes.

Its tongue flicks out. Its stare is triumphant. "You shouldn't have kept me waiting. It's rude."

The Jabberwocky waits, drawing out the moment. Alice feels shame push tears out of her eyes and down her face. This is her _death_ and yet she can think of nothing to say. No way to acknowledge it. There are no words that will help her part with her life. Besides, whatever she would say, she would not give to this creature. Her last words would be for Tarrant, if she'd had the power to speak them.

It's at this moment, as Alice feels her eyes start to close, as the Jabberwocky takes a deep breath, readying itself for one last blast of flame, that a shadow passes over them, knocks her down, and crashes into the Jabberwocky, all at the same time.

Alice once again finds herself gulping air. She hears a dreadful crash: a large body slamming into the ruins. And her name... she hears someone calling her name over and over again. There's a hand in her hair. The overcast, glowing sky fills her line of sight and her eyes water again.

"Alice!"

The shadow passes between her and the too-bright sky. Somewhere off to the side, a hideous screech rents the air and the mindless roar of flame erupts again. She's too tired to even flinch.

"ALICE!"

She coughs, blinks, and focuses.

Tarrant's face, tense and paler than ever, his irises nearly translucent with fear... Tarrant's face is the shadow, she realizes. The force that had knocked her down. She raises her arms to his shoulders and loops them around his neck. In the next moment, she's sitting upright and wrapped up in his arms. She can feel the pounding of his pulse where her fingertips rest against his throat.

_You're real,_ she thinks.

Another earth-shaking boom startles her. Her eyes widen and the haze of confusion vanishes.

"No!" she shouts, pulling back, pushing him away. "What are you _doing __**here?**_"

His eyes narrow and their hue darkens. "I'm releasing ye from yer promise – d'nae fight the Jabberwocky. Don'kill it."

"What?"

"_Trust me!_"

Tarrant pulls her to her feet and Alice finally sees two Jabberwockies in a snarling knot, claws slashing, teeth gnashing. She stares.

And then she understands: "Chessur!"

The true Jabberwocky twists, pinning the shape-shifter to the ground, rears back, opens its jaws and...

...and snaps at the air.

It roars in frustration, turning as Chessur reforms just over its shoulder and swipes at it with his claws. The Jabberwocky bellows its horrible flame, but Chessur has already disappeared again.

This time, the Jabberwocky takes nothing for granted. Twisting its neck, alert and coiled for the next attack, Alice knows this cannot go on indefinitely.

_The sword!_

She turns toward it. If she runs while the Jabberwocky is distracted, she might make it!

"_**No!**_"

Alice is forced to look into Tarrant's furious expression as he shakes her.

"Di'ye nae hear me? _D'nae fight th'__**Jabberwocky!**_"

"But Chessur...!"

Tarrant's eyes narrow.

Behind them, the Jabberwocky howls again as his strike whistles through his foe; Chessur had evaporated yet again. "What is this _mockery?_" it bellows.

Alice watches as Tarrant's entire being changes, transforms, and suddenly, there's a green-eyed mad hatter standing in his place. Turning, Tarrant announces, "A cat!" And then, with a stern glance, he orders, "Stand down, Chessur."

Chessur reappears some distance from the Jabberwocky but between it and his friends, as if ready to defend them at a moment's notice.

The Jabberwocky rattles its scales, flicks its forked tongue, and hisses, "_What _did you say, Outlander?"

"A cat," Tarrant repeats, "with evaporating skills."

"I also borrow shapes," Chessur seems compelled to add. "But that's neither here nor there."

The Jabberwocky's eyes narrow. "Indeed. For you – _cat_ – and _you_ – Outlander – stand between me and my enemy. You will stand aside or you will perish. It makes no difference to me!"

The monster takes a step toward her. Tarrant leaps in the way, his arms wide. Alice stares at his broadsword, still slung across his back, sheathed. Chessur moves to intercept the Jabberwocky again and suddenly, Alice knows what she has to do.

After all, this is _her fight!_

"_STOP!_" She ducks under Tarrant's arm and takes four steps in the creature's direction. "It _ought_ to matter who you kill! You _ought _to care! You've killed this man's entire clan!" Alice doesn't take her eyes off of her foe as she gestures wildly in Tarrant's direction. "_For WHAT?_ _What did the Red Queen promise you on that Horvendush Day that would justify a __**massacre?**_"

"A massacre?" The Jabberwocky pauses, flicks its tongue, and shifts its volatile gaze to Tarrant. "A Hightopp, are you?" it rumbles.

Tarrant, now standing beside Alice, nods.

The Jabberwocky leans back slightly. "I see. That... was not my finest hour."

The admission shocks Alice into silence. Even Tarrant and Chessur say nothing. When her voice finds her again, Alice asks, "But _why?_"

Tongue flicking, the Jabberwocky coils its tail around its legs and tells her, "For the Vorpal Sword, of course."

"Of course?" Alice parrots. "But what is so special about a _sword?_ Why are you enemies?"

The Jabberwocky seems startled. It blinks and a look of... sadness comes over it. Its leathery wings rustle. Its snake-like whiskers droop. "You mean, you do not know?"

Alice shakes her head. "No."

"In the hands of another, the Vorpal _must_ be my enemy. But..." With reluctance, the Jabberwocky continues, "In _my_ possession, it is my salvation." The creature glances in the direction of the fallen weapon and Alice is surprised to see a wistful look about it. "The Vorpal is my heart and soul. Taken from me by one I trusted. Used against me to gift fame and glory to its wielder." The Jabberwocky returns its gaze to Alice. "Of course I would kill for it. I am incomplete without it."

Alice's thoughts race. Could it be this simple? Could _this _be the answer to all the calamities and misery?

_There's only one way to find out..._

Turning on her heel, she marches across the stones and tufts of weeds and picks up the sword. She carefully holds it in front of her, as she had the day she'd presented it to the White Queen. She walks past Tarrant and Chessur and, standing before the Jabberwocky, holds it out to him.

"Then take it," she invites.

Alice cannot mistake the look of longing the Jabberwocky directs at the blade. "I cannot take it, bearer. It must be returned to me by a hand not my own. For that was the manner in which it was taken."

She hesitates, for truly, here is a situation _worth_ hesitating over. She wonders if the Jabberwocky is telling the truth. Yes, the first hour of its new life has not ended yet, and, as the texts and the queen herself had assured her, the Jabberwocky is more... vulnerable now than at any other time. But to trust it? To trust this beast that had happily tried to kill her not once, but twice?

_This is the reason why the Jabberwocky and the sword remain enemies, why they cannot escape this unending cycle._

Alice sees the truth now: who, in their right mind, would be willing to trust such a nightmarish creature? Who would be willing to give away the one implement that has the power to control it? Who would be willing to risk their own life to right a wrong? A wrong that no record remains of... A wrong that may, very well, be pure fabrication: a means to killing the sword's bearer?

Who in their right mind would dare to trust the Jabberwocky?

Perhaps she's not in her right mind, but Alice knows she has to try. The cycle cannot continue.

The battlefield is completely silent except for the sound of her footsteps. The Jabberwocky straightens as she approaches, its eyes wary, its body tense and twitching. Still Alice does not grasp the sword by the hilt.

When she is but two small steps away from the creature, when she can smell its odd, alien scent, she stops. She offers the sword and says simply, "Show me where to place it."

The Jabberwocky's tail curls and uncurls as it seems to deliberate. Finally, it leans back, exposing a long, slender break in the scales covering its chest. It watches her and she can feel disbelief radiating from it. It has no reason to trust her. She has no reason to trust it.

"The Vorpal Sword is yours again," she whispers and gently lays it against the Jabberwocky's torso, pressing it into the slender space.

In that moment, the tiny seed of hope that Alice is clutching with all her determination resonates with the same emotion in the Jabberwocky. The sword, nestled in its chest, glows, and in the next instant, a pulse of light – a shockwave – sends Alice flying backward through the air.

She curls her arms around her head and the breath is smashed out of her again when she lands on the stones. She hears nothing over the pounding of her heart and her frantic gasps for air, but there are hands on her face and the shadow covers up the sky again. For long moments, that's all she can comprehend: the hands, the shadow, the pain in her chest and the bruises on her body.

When, at last, she manages a breath that is not cautiously shallow or too painful, she blinks her eyes and croaks, "Tarrant?"

"Aye, ye're fine. Ye're fine."

Her hands reach for him, fluttering weakly. Again, he pulls her into his arms. Alice leans against him and turns toward the Jabberwocky. Her eyes widen at the sight of it now. No longer is a black, skeletal, hideous dragon twitching and glowering beside the ruins on the battlefield. The Jabberwocky's body is still now. Calm. Its eyes are closed and its expression peaceful. Alice watches as its body fills out and its wings unfurl. And the colors! Deep blue, shimmering green, and radiant orange blossom across its scales. Its whiskers thicken and, on its skull, its crest rises like a plume atop the head of majestic bird. Finally, it opens its eyes and Alice stares again, for in each eye she sees the warm colors of dawn: yellow becomes peach and then rose.

The Jabberwocky regards her as well and then, in a soft voice, murmurs, "Thank you, former bearer."

"Alice," she manages. "Call me Alice... What's your name?"

The Jabberwocky starts at her daring question.

"_My_ name? I..." It seems to have to think about its answer. "Krystoval," it says finally. "Yes, I remember it clearly now. I am called Krystoval."

Krystoval, the Jabberwocky, turns to Tarrant and, expression grave, intones, "I am sorry for the loss of your clan, Outlander. I regret many things I have done over the course of my existence, but that day most of all."

Alice grasps Tarrant's hand when he merely nods tersely in acknowledgement. She wouldn't have been able to find words, either, if she'd received an apology for the eradication of everything she'd held dear by the very creature that had taken it all away. And the fault of it cannot _wholly _lie with the Jabberwocky. No, Stayne and the Red Queen had used Krystoval, had treated this creature very poorly, had twisted and starved it with shadowy promises of freedom until the barest hint of relief had driven it to kill and destroy.

_No longer._

"What will you do now, Krystoval?" Alice asks.

Its mouth stretches in a toothy smile that seems oddly gentle. "Live, Alice. I shall live now."

"The White Queen," Alice feels compelled to say, "offers you her hospitality. You're welcome at Mamoreal." She hesitates, suddenly ashamed. "If you can overlook the rash actions of her Champion, that is."

"There is no shame in fighting," the Jabberwocky says forcefully. "Only in doing so for the wrong reason." It gazes at her intently, evaluating the embrace she hasn't disengaged from. "I believe your reason for fighting, Alice, must have been quite worthy."

"Well, all's well that ends well!" Chessur chirps, still a starved-looking Jabberwocky.

"Indeed," Krystoval agrees. It studies Chessur with a keen eye and an embarrassed expression. "Tell me, Cat-With-Evaporating-Skills, did I truly look that horrid?"

Chessur evaporates and reappears, once again, as a smiling cat. "More so, I believe," he comments blithely. "After all, I've not got your skills at frightening the wits out of others."

"Remarkable," the Jabberwocky says. Then, turning back to them, it says, "Fairfarren, Alice. Fairfarren, Hightopp and Cat-With-Evaporating-Skills."

"Fairfarren, Krystoval," Alice whispers and watches as the Jabberwocky spreads its wings and takes off across the sky.

* * *

[End of Chapter 8]


	25. Book 1, Outlandish Claims, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Nine: Outlandish Claims**_ [Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]

Mirana cradles the Oraculum in her hands, marveling yet again at the illustration before her: The Jabberwocky allowing Alice to replace the Vorpal Sword in his breast.

And then: Alice and Tarrant and Chessur's triumphant return to the still-standing castle at Mamoreal.

Yes, yes, she's already heard the details from her returning warriors. Still, she marvels.

Only Chessur's unique abilities could have delayed and distracted the enraged Jabberwocky. Only Tarrant's non sequiturs could have calmed it. Only Alice's odd Uplander logic could have worked out the puzzle of it all.

A puzzle, indeed. Mirana shakes her head and sighs with fondness. Only an Uplander would have thought it odd that a monster and the sword capable of defeating it have maintained a rivalry since the beginning of recorded history. Only an Uplander – Alice – could have saved both Underland _and _the Jabberwocky.

_What odd logic those Uplanders employ,_ she thinks.

"Ahem..."

Mirana looks up and smiles at Chessur where he hovers just inside her office door.

"If I might make a brief request, Your Majesty?"

"Chessur, what do you need?" the queen asks, feeling magnanimous after such a fine conclusion to the trouble that had been looming over them all for months.

"I would like to borrow the Chronicle of Rites if I might... for Alice," he states with a demure air.

The queen blinks. "Whatever for? The Trial of Threes has been completed. Permanently, it seems..."

"Yes, so it would, however..." Chessur clears his throat. "Did Your Majesty happen to notice Tarrant's heart line earlier?"

Mirana searches her memory and finds herself recalling the moment Tarrant had slammed both of his hands down upon her desk in fury. Oh, yes, there _had_ been something different about... Oh, goodness.

"They've completed the second exchange?" she asks.

"They have. How he got Alice to agree to it, I've no idea. I'll eat my tail if she truly knows what's happened."

_Oh, that's not good at all!_

Mirana bites her lip. "Do you really think now is the best time to... tell her?"

"Well," Chessur holds up a paw and counts his pads. "She's in bed at the moment so her weapons are all beyond reach. She's too tired to kill Tarrant with her bare hands should she react... adversely. And, as I mentioned, she's lying down so if she swoons, she won't hurt herself."

"All valid points," Mirana praises. "If I might make a slight suggestion? Give the tome to Tarrant. Let him have one more chance to tell her himself."

"If he can," Chessur snorts. "How he thinks he's going to explain this happening not _once_ but _twice...?_"

Mirana has a hard time thinking of a plausible excuse for that, as well. "Still, let's give him the opportunity."

Chessur turns, as if to evaporate, but pauses and, with a positively evil grin, inquires too innocently, "I don't suppose Your Majesty would permit a cat to oversee the conversation. Just to be... safe?"

Mirana huffs, hiding a smile. "No overseeing. No overhearing, either, Chessur."

"Oh, very well..."

"And Chessur?"

"Your Majesty?"

"I commend you. Your battle with the Jabberwocky was valiantly fought."

The Cheshire Cat winces, but she thinks she sees a spark of reluctant pride in his green eyes. "Don't remind me," he grumbles and swirling once, disappears.

* * *

Tarrant slumps in the armchair beside Alice's bed and holds onto her hand – _the left one again!_ He's tired enough to tumble into a bed, too, but he mustn't do so in Alice's. It would _not do_ to lie down next to her, no matter how tired he is. After all, his exhaustion has its source in a sleepless night and a highly emotional afternoon. _He_ hadn't been the one tossed about by the Jabberwocky!

He glances at the jar of salve on the sideboard and feels not a little jealous that the queen had been the one to tend to Alice this time. Still, Tarrant could hardly have addressed the injuries on her shoulders or hips or... No, no, he couldn't have done that. The second exchange had only been completed the day before and he'll have to wait until the third before...

Clearing his throat, Tarrant elects to distract himself from the third exchange and what follows it.

Gently unfurling her fingers from the lightly-clasped fist she'd made in her sleep, Tarrant examines her heart line. Just like his, the band has darkened considerably. His is a bright crimson now and Alice's a bright blue. Wispy tendrils break off from the band around their fingers, twining up toward the pinpricks on the fingertip and twining back, over the third knuckle and reaching further to the wrist.

All in all, it's a perfectly normal betrothal ring. Over the next few weeks, the lines will darken and continue twisting up until they reach the space over the heart. Tarrant knows that only with the third and final exchange will Alice's blood bind with his heart and his with hers.

He smiles and hums a bit under his breath. Alice remains unmoving against the pillows, but he doesn't mind. She's safe now. And she's very nearly completely _his!_

"I thought I'd find you here."

Tarrant turns and shares his smile with Chessur who, oddly enough, does not smile back. "Thank you for your assistance today, Chessur. It made all the difference in Underland."

"It was the least I could do."

"Well, no... You _could_ have evaporated from the queen's office and left Alice to die, me to madness, and the Jabberwocky to rampage across all of Underland."

"It was enlightened self-interest, I assure you."

"Ah, _sure_ you are," Tarrant giggles.

Ignoring the pun, Chessur nods to the developing heart line on Tarrant's left hand. "A strong connection. It's developing rather fast."

"It seems to be," he admits happily.

"I'll have to congratulate Alice on her impending nuptials when she awakens."

_That_ dries up Tarrant's smile. "Oh, well, that is..."

"You _still_ haven't told her yet," Chessur says in an accusatory but resigned tone.

"I thought she... That is the other night when she... and I asked if she was... and she said 'Yes!'"

Chessur gives him a cool, evaluating look. "Humor me," the cat orders, producing a brown, dusty book. Tarrant accepts it and stares at the faded words on the cover. "There's an entry in there that will explain the process, but not your rationale. I have to admit I'm rather curious as to that, myself." Chessur's tail twitches back and forth in irritation. "Do _not _leave this room without telling her what the two of you have done."

With that, Chessur evaporates slowly until only his glaring green eyes remain. But after a moment, even those are gone and Tarrant looks down at the book in his hand. He slumps back in his chair and, still holding Alice's hand with his right, he opens the text with his left and begins leafing through the pages. In silence, Tarrant reads over the rite that has been a part of the Hightopp clan as far back as anyone could remember. But despite the familiarity of the passage, he feels completely and utterly alone.

What will he do if Alice refuses him, refuses this? He is not a prince or a lord or a viscount or a baron or even a promising merchant. He's a craftsman. A milliner. An old, lonely, _mad_ one at that. And Alice is so very young and lovely and...

Tarrant would give almost anything to stay in this moment, holding her hand while she sleeps. But, he imagines he would miss her voice eventually. And her attention. She can't very well converse with him, sit with him, or return his grasp if she's asleep. And because Tarrant wants those things, more than anything, he'll wait until she wakes up and then... and then he'll tell her what it is they've done.

Although things look bleak, there is hope: Alice has forgiven him before.

_Perhaps she has the strength to do so once more._

"Oh, iambic pentameter," he murmurs.

No doubt Alice would have liked it, had she heard it.

* * *

[End of Chapter 9: Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]


	26. Book 1, Outlandish Claims, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Nine: Outlandish Claims**_ [Scenes 3 & 4 of 4]

_That bloody Jabberwocky_ is Alice's first thought upon waking.

She winces with each ache and pain as she gingerly tests her limbs. When nothing seems to be hurting worse than it ought to be after being treated with Mirana's special Pain Paste, Alice relaxes back and luxuriates in the familiar surroundings.

_Very familiar!_ she thinks when she realizes someone is sitting in the armchair beside her bed. The very same one the Hatter had used the night after he'd pulled her through the looking glass. And now here it is, occupied again. But by a different man this time. No, _the Hatter _isn't waiting for her to wake up. _Tarrant Hightopp_ is.

And he's very much sound asleep.

Alice smiles but doesn't move to nudge his knee. The shadows under his eyes are dark and his skin is still so pale. He ought to be in bed, so of course he isn't. She sighs. She doesn't want to get up – the bed's far too comfortable. She knows she should wake _him_ up, though, and send him off to his own bed, but she doubts he'll go. He'll insist on tea and riddles and whatever else he's waiting in her chair in order to talk to her about.

She decides to let him sleep.

For a while, she simply lies on her side and watches him. She notices he'd taken his hat off – it's on the sideboard. As she can't see the jar of healing paste, she imagines his hat must be sitting on top of it. She studies his cravat, loosened just the slightest bit. He's still wearing his vest and jacket. It's the same suit he always wears and now it's seen one more amazing adventure. Leaning against the chair is his broadsword. She imagines him waiting outside her door while the queen had asked her about the battle as she'd applied the paste then helped her into her sleeping trousers and nightshirt. Perhaps he'd been pacing. Or maybe he'd been too tired to do more than lean against the wall. Perhaps there's a broadsword-hilt-shaped dent in the plaster beside her door...

She regrets falling asleep so quickly for she'd missed his arrival and the chance to thank him now that they'd finally returned safe and sound.

"You saved me again," she whispers.

He doesn't stir.

Well, watching him sleep is all well and good – romantic, even, she supposes and then wonders if those sorts of thoughts might be inappropriate. After all, the two times she'd kissed Tarrant the circumstances had been rather... unusual. Perhaps, to his mind, they're friends only... And for all her brazenness, Alice never has been able to ask him about that. Strange.

Wishing for something to distract herself with, her gaze falls to the book lying open on Tarrant's knee.

_Well, as he's not using it at the moment..._

Gingerly, Alice reaches out for it but stops and stares at her hand.

_How very... odd,_ she muses with a twinge of alarm. The simple, pale blue band around her third finger seems to have... changed. She turns her hand this way and that, examining both the darker band and the odd, curving lines that seem to be sprouting from it. They wrap up her finger, like vines, and twine across the back of her hand, halfway to her wrist.

She flexes it and is relieved that it doesn't hurt.

_Some sort of poisoning,_ she decides dispassionately. _The queen will have something for it._

This time, when Alice reaches for the book – and a much-needed distraction – she doesn't hesitate. Very, very gently, she lifts it from his knee and, turning it around, reads the title of the entry:

_Thrice a-Vow_

Frowning, Alice tries to remember why that seems so familiar. She studies the fine calligraphy of the title for a moment more, but the memory eludes her. Out of patience, she flips over the book's cover. _(Ah, now I recognize this book!)_

She returns to the entry and skims it, unsure if she'd like to spend thirty minutes trying to grasp some horridly dull concept. However, when she finds several unsettling phrases repeated consistently in the text, she slows her perusal:

_"One of the advantages of the Thrice a-Vow is derived from the sharing of blood. Aspects of each of the bonded's character may be transmitted in such a way, ensuring that afflictions such as madness and paranoia are tempered. This vow has often been used in such cases as when one of the participants suffers from some variety of chronic mental fatigue or illness..."_

Alice skims a bit more and sees a notation:

_"Illustrations of the stages of the development of a successful heart line may be found on the following page."_

She turns the page.

After a moment – or two – of staring at the drawings, she manages to swallow. The sound of it is oddly loud in the room and Alice startles herself. She flips the page back to the entry:

_"A drop of blood must be consumed directly from the tip of the to-be-bonded's heart-line finger, each of the other's, then followed by a kiss, with the exception of the third and final exchange which requires consummation for the full effect to be implemented."_

Alice gapes at the page.

"Consu..." she mutters a bit breathlessly. Hurriedly, she sifts through the various examples of complications:

_"If the second exchange is not made within three months' time, the vow will cease without harm to either party. Upon the completion of the second exchange, another three months may be passed before the third exchange. If the third exchange is __**not**_ _made by the end of the thirty-times-third day, the disintegration of the vow will be quite painful, the intensity of which will drive any remotely unstable individual into true madness and will also leave a permanent mark on any healthy mind."_

"Oh, bloody wonderful," she growls, reading the rest of it.

As the bits she'd already covered had hinted, the Thrice a-Vow is, in fact, a type of Underland marriage rite. While deliberate erasure of the vow after the completion of the second exchange is strongly advised against, it is quite impossible after the third.

_I am such a fool!_ Alice shoves the book away and stares up at the ceiling. She doesn't dare look in the Hatter's direction. She knows if she does, she'll be staring at his left hand and she's not ready to see what she thinks must be there.

_And to think I'd thought it a harmless ritual – something we'd stumbled upon by accident!_

Indeed, a harmless, friendly – although not all _that _friendly if the heat of those kisses are anything to go by! – innocent – again, perhaps _not _the best choice of word – little ritual. It had certainly seemed to soothe Tarrant the second time around, but, now that she thinks about it...

_I suppose I would have passed out, too, if I'd known what the first exchange had signified..._

Alice shifts uncomfortably, guiltily. Perhaps Tarrant hadn't _meant _to make the first exchange at all. Perhaps _that's _why he'd fainted. And then... oh, dear... Alice had more or less demanded he make the second. She'd told him to take the pin and had offered her hand and...

Had he been too much of a gentleman to refuse her?

Alice folds her arms over her chest and grasps her upper arms as another – an even more horrible – possibility occurs to her:

Had Tarrant even been aware of what they'd done at the time? Had he known they'd promised and then betrothed each to the other? Likely not, she realizes. He would have mentioned it. Perhaps that's why he'd been reading this particular entry when he'd fallen asleep. Someone, probably the queen, had noticed the blood-betrothal-rings on their hands and had given him the book to read.

Alice squeezes her eyes shut. _What must he think of me?_

Tarrant, her closest, dearest friend, now must face a lifetime of unending madness – caused by the painful reversal of the first and second exchange – or marriage. To _her._

Suddenly, it's all too much. Much, much, much too much. Tarrant will be very disappointed with her lack of muchness when he wakes up, but Alice can_not stay in this room __**another minute!**_

She slides quietly from the bed, throws on her discarded vest, grabs her belt, sword, and knife out of habit, and flees the room.

* * *

Mirana can't say she's surprised to see her Champion standing barefoot and looking quite lost on her doorstep. She'd hoped for a far more satisfactory result to her learning of the Thrice a-Vow, of course, but that can't be helped now.

"Come in, Alice."

Alice moves woodenly toward the sofa then, inexplicably, stops and swerves toward an armchair. Alice says nothing as she stares into the dark hearth, not even commenting on Mirana's night mask. And Mirana knows silence is _never_ a good sign.

"The Thrice a-Vow?" Mirana prompts, sinking down into the adjacent chair.

Alice nods. The queen notices her left hand is curled into a fist.

"What will you do?" she asks gently.

Alice shakes her head. "No idea. Absolutely no idea."

"That's fine," Mirana assures her. "Stay on the sofa again, if you like."

"Thank you."

Mirana reaches out and pats Alice's short hair. "You've taken good care of me, Alice. As your friend, I shall do my best for you." Rising, Mirana gathers up a pillow and some blankets then makes up a bed on the sofa. "Get some rest now. Things will look different in the morning."

"Yes," Alice agrees with a tiny smile. "For one thing, it won't be so dark."

"Exactly!"

When Mirana quietly sneaks out of her own bedroom just after dawn and passes by the parlor, she notes that Alice never did move to the sofa; she'd spent the night in the armchair. Mirana leaves a jar of salve for her beside the small pile of weapons on the neighboring chair, then, on a whisper of sound, leaves her rooms.

Floating down the stairs, Mirana thinks to try Tarrant's apartment first, but when the keyhole informs her that he's yet to return, she drifts in the direction of Alice's room. With a soft knock, she opens the door and calls, "Tarrant?"

Receiving no objections to her entry, Mirana pushes open the door and scans the room – really, Alice ought accept an apartment! This is far too small for her to feel comfortable for very long!

And there, by the bed, Tarrant sits with his elbows braced on his knees in an armchair – one very similar to the one Alice had slept in, actually – and is staring at an open book on the bed covers. Approaching him, Mirana notices that the text in question is her reference book on Underlandian rites and that it's not even turned in the correct direction for her Hatter to be reading it.

Stepping closer, she realizes he's _not_ reading it. He's not even staring at it. His eyes are unfocused and she winces at that horrible muddy, murky grey-green. She'd hoped never to see that particular shade again.

"Tarrant?" Unsure of her reception, she gently pats his shoulder.

After a long moment, he asks quietly, "Where is she?"

"In my rooms."

"She's upset?"

"A bit." The queen looks down at Tarrant's hands as they dangle between his knees. She's never seen his hands so... motionless, so weak, so _lifeless._ She winces again at the sight of the bright red betrothal ring on his left hand.

"'Twas a mistake," he says. Looking down, he comments flatly, "I'll have to start wearing gloves. Regularly." There's a slight pause, and then: "I hate gloves."

The queen pats his shoulder again. "Maybe a pair with the fingertips cut off?"

"... maybe."

She wants to ask if Tarrant had explained the situation _thoroughly_ to Alice, but she dares not stir his pain any more than it already has been.

"In a few days... Give Alice some time," she counsels him. "Even _I _was surprised when I'd first heard about it." She doesn't tell him who had told her. He knows. He'd been an apprentice to his Fa when Mirana – a princess, then! – had asked the man about the odd blue design scrolling up his left arm.

_"'Tis the Thrice a-Vow. A blood rite. Keeps us hatters sane – well, mostly – an' it keeps our spouses lively... sometimes a bit too much!"_

"Let her think about it for a few days. You've time yet..."

Tarrant stands. "I think... I'll fetch those gloves now. Good day, Your Majesty."

Helplessly, Mirana watches as he slouches from the room.

* * *

[End of Chapter 9]


	27. Book 1, The Sixth Suitor, 1 of 4

_**Chapter Ten: The Sixth Suitor**_ [Scenes 1 & 2 of 6]

Things do indeed look different in the morning. From Alice's point of view, they have become unavoidably worse: Tarrant – no, _the Hatter_ now, for there is no trace of the warmth and caring she'd become accustomed to in the man – is not at breakfast. He refuses to meet her eyes when she stops by his workshop for lunch and Alice ends up retreating to the courtyard with a bit of whatever Thackery had given her. And, even worse, the Hatter had been wearing gloves. All day long.

Alice knows she ought to apologize. And she will. She _will_. She just... just needs a bit more time to... to get used to the idea of... of what she'd done and figure out how to... to... to fix it.

_Only, there __**is **__no way to fix this!_

Safe inside her room after she'd taken out her frustration on an inexperienced pawn on the croquet field, she buries her face in her hands and cries.

Any way she looks at it, the Hatter will _have to _complete the vow with her. Surely he can't think that the pain and resulting – _permanent!_ – madness are an acceptable option! Within eighty-seven days, she decides, one way or another, they'll complete the third exchange and... what comes after. And then Tarrant need not spend another moment with her. His mind will be as well as she can make it. That's all she can ask for, really. All she can expect.

The book had been quite clear on the consequences of trying to _cheat_ the vow: the death of one of the participants would change nothing, merely initiate the excruciatingly painful withdrawal of the blood that had begun to bind with the body. Nor would one of the participants attempting to overwrite the vow by bonding with another have any less detrimental effects. There exist no antidotes, no numbing agents strong enough to counteract the effects.

Alice can't think of anything else to try. And, even if death or another vow _could_ have relieved their situation, Alice wouldn't have entertained the possibility of either. She'd promised not to let Tarrant be hurt. Admittedly, she isn't doing a very good job of it, but that's no reason to say _brangergain i'tall!_ and do her worst!

And so, with no solution on the horizon, and the Hatter more distant than she's ever seen him, the week is painfully long. It's only Alice's established routine – minus the lunch and teatime in the hat workshop – that gets her through it. She marvels miserably as time and time again, she sees the Hatter in the distance and thinks: _The Trial of Threes is over, the suitors are gone... we ought to be __**happy!**_

Of course, with thoughts like that floating around in her head constantly, something else _would _go wrong...

* * *

"You're being miserable!" Chessur yowls over his untouched cup of tea. "Why are you making yourself so ridiculous?"

Tarrant stares at his own teacup, held delicately between his bare fingertips and fabric-swathed hands, and frowns. How utterly _catty_ of Chessur to waste properly prepared _hot _tea by insulting him! Tarrant shifts his gaze to his ungrateful visitor and glares. It's been days – _a week, actually..._ – since he's given a thought to the color of his eyes, but he suddenly hopes Chessur gets a view of his most unsettling toxic yellow fury.

"Why do I bother to waste my time? I might as well be talking to a Tumtum tree!" Tail and head held high – although Tarrant finds it maliciously amusing that Chessur's tail rises far higher than his chin could ever hope to! – the cat abandons his full teacup and plate of thoughtfully-provided edibles and saunters to the door.

"I've had enough of your pity parties, Tarrant. Let me know when you start serving tea again!"

With that, he evaporates, bit by bit through the door. Tarrant sits for a minute. Or perhaps two. Actually, it could be twenty... And then he picks up the ends of the tablecloth and, folding it all together – teapot, cups, dishes, sandwiches, scones, biscuits, silverware! – he hauls the dripping mass to the door of his workshop, intending to throw the door open and leave the mess in the hall for whomever is charged with cleaning it up.

His intentions, however, change when he throws open the door – as planned! – and sees not an empty hall, but Alice standing there. The corners of the tablecloth slip through his numb fingers and the bundle crashes to the floor. He barely hears the ruckus and Alice doesn't seem to, either.

With a start, Tarrant realizes Alice has come _to see __**him!**_ And he might be Mad, utterly Miserable, and a complete Moron – he's considering "M" words today – but he does know his Manners!

"Come in." He marvels at how amazingly calm he sounds.

Alice – ever the Champion! – doesn't hesitate. As she enters, the breeze carries her scent and he finds himself gripping the door tightly to keep himself standing upright. Oh, how he's missed her! And he busies himself with putting out the tablecloth and tea things – as he'd intended! – before turning around.

She stands – _why isn't she sitting in her usual chair?_ – in the workroom, not far from the door. She doesn't say anything for a moment, but that's fine. Tarrant studies her left hand. The bright blue heart line has progressed over the back of her hand and disappears under her shirt cuff, just as his be-gloved red one does.

"This is my fault," she says, suddenly. "I promised not to let you be hurt and then I injured you myself... worse than ever." He watches her throat work – oh, to be near that throat again! He remembers massaging salve into it that night after the duel with that gutless, spineless, groping cheat! He remembers pressing his nose against it after the second excha—! Tarrant stops that thought _right __**there**_.

"I've injured you. Grievously."

He frowns. This is the part where he should be apologizing to _her_, not...

"I realize you must not have known, or you would have said something... Or you _had_ known, but you were too much of a gentleman to deny me when I..." She takes a deliberate breath here. "... asked you to..." And another. "... perform the second exchange on the night before the Trial of Threes."

Tarrant feels his jaw drop.

"I care for you... very much," she continues, closing her eyes.

_Why does she do that?_

He doesn't know.

"And although the damage to our friendship may be irreparable, I will not let you suffer because of _me_."

Still gaping, Tarrant watches as she opens her eyes – not a tear in sight, but plenty of determination!

She announces, "At your convenience, I'll perform the third exchange and... finalize the vow."

The queen's clock marks the seconds as they pass in utter silence.

_Tick! Tock! Tick! Tock!_

"That's all I came to say," she concludes.

When the door closes behind her, the sound startles him into action. He leaps for it and throws it open. Forgetting the mess in the hall, he loses several precious seconds negotiating the now-slippery, shard-strewn floor. But in those seconds two things become perfectly clear: One, Alice is not angry with _him!_ And, two, she still _cares for __**him!**_ Certainly, with these two facts in place, they can mend this misunderstanding – _how can she think this situation is __**her**_ _fault? _– and sit down and discuss things properly!

Tarrant races after her, her name pressing against the back of his teeth. He turns the corner – slipping again... perhaps his shoes will have to be resoled – and stumbles down the stairs in the direction of voices. Tarrant uses his grip on the balustrade to slingshot himself around toward the main hall –

– and scrambles to a halt. For there, in the middle of the Castle of Mamoreal's main foyer, stands Ilosovich Stayne.

"... here to court Her Majesty, the queen," the knave informs his audience.

Alice, standing at the forefront of the queen's guards, regards Stayne with a look Tarrant sincerely hopes to never, ever earn for himself. "I shall alert the queen to your petition. As your _true_ alliances cannot be verified at the present time, you will stay in the quarters proved for you until called for." A spark of hostility flames in her eyes. "Unless you'd prefer to turn around and crawl back to wherever it is you've come from."

"I think I'll stay," he murmurs in that groveling tone he'd used with the Big Head.

Alice is not impressed.

Tarrant watches Alice watch the guards march Stayne off to a secure room. When she looks up – oh, she must have noticed his attention! Well, he _had_ been thinking about her awfully hard – their gazes meet. He thinks he sees her expression soften, just the smallest increment, and then, with a tiny, reassuring smile, she turns away.

Hands fisting – how odd it feels to fist one's hand in gloves, even with the tips of the fingers removed! – Tarrant lets her go. After all, she's the Queen's Champion.

_Alice is working now. Mustn't interfere..._

But, oh, how he wants to! How he _desperately, emphatically, __**would-do-anything-if-only-he-could!**_ wants to!

* * *

[End of Chapter 10: Scenes 1 & 2 of 6]


	28. Book 1, The Sixth Suitor, 2 of 4

_**Chapter Ten: The Sixth Suitor**_ [Scenes of 6]

"You must be able to do _something?_"

Mirana sighs and shakes her head. "I'm sorry, Alice," she tells her befuddled Champion. "I _wish I __**could**_, but Stayne is, unfortunately, of acceptable lineage. His being banished doesn't apply in this situation."

"Then we'll invent a reason! He won't know the difference!"

The queen leans her forehead in her hand. "No, he will. Stayne grew up with these laws, just as Iracebeth and I did. He knows them. Well."

"Announce your decision to marry someone else!"

Mirana closes her eyes. "Were I to do that, my chosen spouse would be required to challenge Stayne directly. I can't risk inciting a war by dragging another monarchy or lordship into this."

Long moments pass. And then: "So he's staying."

"Yes, he'll have to. I can't refuse him hospitality until the duel is completed."

"Then let's not waste time," Alice surprises her by saying. "I'll chaperone your... _meeting_ with him on the croquet pitch, with your guard in attendance. I'll interview him before dinner and then it'll just be the duel tomorrow. There's no need to let him get too comfortable here." Alice's eyes flash and the queen is started when she thinks she sees a glint of gold there... "I don't trust him."

"Nor do I," Mirana admits. "Are you rested? Truly rested, Alice? I'll not have you at a disadvantage, not for any reason."

"I'm fine. I'm ready." Alice finally accepts the seat Mirana had offered her. "But what of your sister? He came alone."

Mirana presses her fists to her eyes and struggles to push the tears of rage and frustration back. "I... consulted the Oraculum. Her fate was... recorded."

"I'm so sorry, Mirana."

The queen tries not to think about that horrid illustration: the chain with which she'd ordered those two traitors to be shackled together... that chain around her sister's throat and the frightening smile on Stayne's face...

Mirana shakes her head and takes a deep breath. "I shall summon the courtiers. We'll need witnesses to the duel, at least."

Alice nods. "Have your guard in attendance, in the event that..."

"Of course." If Stayne really could murder his former mistress – and not just threaten to in order to perform a bit of grandstanding on the battlefield in hopes of earning himself a lighter sentence – then the man truly could and _would_ do anything to achieve his goals.

"He's going to cheat, you know."

Mirana nods. "I'm sure he will."

"If it gets bad, I want you to leave the field, Your Majesty." It's not Mirana's imagination this time – Alice's eyes do seem to be... burning from the inside. "I'll not risk your life."

Mirana reaches out and settles her hand over her Champion's. "You use whatever you must to defeat him. Do not limit yourself as you did with Oshtyer, Alice." Her Champion nods. "I'll not risk _your _life," Mirana explains, "unnecessarily."

"If you mean that, Your Majesty, perhaps the duel won't be required at all..." Alice muses, a hard look in her eyes.

Mirana glances down at Alice's fingers which are moving over the hidden pocket of her belt. The one with the garrote – the assassin's weapon.

"No, Alice. It must be done in the open."

"But I must win, at any cost?"

"Yes."

Alice lets out a blustery sigh. "Well, let's get Bandy out there on patrols, then. I want to be sure no one dares to come to the bastard's assistance before this wretched business is finished."

"Agreed."

They pass a few moments in contemplative silence, putting off things that ought to be addressed urgently rather than at their leisure. Then, Alice shifts in her chair and Mirana notices she's studying her own left hand. "I told Tarrant I'd finish it." She looks up and gives Mirana a wry grin. "I just thought you might be interested in hearing that."

"Indeed I am! That's the best news I've heard all week! Have you set the date?"

"No, he hasn't agreed yet... but I think he will. No matter how he feels about me now, I can't imagine he'd wish pain and a broken mind on me."

"No, Tarrant would never wish that for you, but, Alice, don't you know how much he... that is... he..."

"He's angry with me, I know. But you're right: he cares. He cares." She nods and exhales sharply. "It's enough."

Mirana holds her tongue despite the fact that she'd _love_ to set Alice straight on a thing or two, but no: it is up to Tarrant to fix this. He will. Mirana knows he will.

"I'm happy for you nonetheless," Mirana tells her.

Alice's smile is sad.

"Are _you_ not happy?" the queen asks before she can stop herself.

Her Champion shakes her head. "I don't know. I'm hoping that'll come later."

Wisely, Mirana says nothing to that. After all, Alice has a meeting and an interview to prepare for and additional security measures to implement before either event takes place. Mirana shudders at the thought of being so near that slimy, murdering, sadistic, groveling twit. But it'll all be over soon, Mirana reminds herself, reaching for her parchment and quill. As she quickly pens invitations to a dozen of her courtiers, Mirana begins to relax: by this time tomorrow, it will be over and done with.

* * *

When the interview has finally reached its end, Alice watches the guard escort Stayne back to his room and desperately wishes for a hot bath for herself. Just being in the same room with him has made her feel unclean.

Her hands fist at the memory of his suggestive comments:

"A heart line, Alice? To whom have you...? Oh, yes, _of course._ The _Hatter._ I should have seen it earlier. He always did... _pant_ after you... a bit like a poor, stupid dog. I'm sure you'll have a lot of fun together, making him fetch and carry..."

Alice grits her teeth to keep the scream of disgust and rage from eking out. Her skin crawls just as it had when Oshtyer had dared to touch her, had dared to attack her on such a horridly personal level. She allows herself a shudder before opening the parlor door. She's careful to keep her eyes open in the corridor. It seems unlikely that Stayne could escape twelve members of the guard, but his conspirators – if they exist – might have entered the castle. Alice keeps her knife close.

As she passes by the next door, a hand reaches out, grabs her arm and pulls her into the Royal Library of Alchemy. She uses her attacker's momentum to swing him around and against a bookshelf. Her knife is at his throat before she recognizes him.

"Hatter?" she asks, mortified, panicked, frightened. "Don't _grab me like that!_"

"Champion," he replies with a proud smile. "Excellent reflexes. You'll need them tomorrow."

Alice lowers the knife. "I know."

She looks into his eyes. The irises are aqua-blue and Alice feels almost weak-kneed at the sight of that much-missed color.

The Hatter's hands hover on either side of her face, as if he can't quite decide whether or not to touch her.

Alice ventures, "I know you're upset with me and I _am_ sorry, but could we just forget about it for a moment and...?" She leans toward his left hand and closes her eyes as his rough skin – _He's taken off the gloves!_ – brushes against her cheek.

"Yes," he whispers and then his hands are there_._ His thumbs stroke her cheeks and his fingers thread into her hair. He leans his forehead against hers and Alice thinks she can feel him shivering, too. "Alice... Alice... I'm not angry, Alice... I... I..."

Alice waits, but he never finishes the thought aloud. After a moment, he inhales deeply and leans back. In the gloom of the library, Alice studies his eyes. There's just enough light for her to discern the cobalt blue there.

"Ye keep yer promise. Fight hard..."

"As hard as I must."

"Do wha'ever ye must..."

"To win. I promise." Alice reaches across the brief space between them and intertwines her left hand with his, turning it so he can see her heart line. "I _promise_."

He _does _shiver then, undoubtedly.

Alice can't bear to let this moment end. Not yet. But she can think of nothing else to say. In the end, she says nothing. She keeps her grip tight on his hand and just holds on for one more minute.

* * *

[End of Chapter 10: Scenes 3 & 4 of 6]


	29. Book 1, The Sixth Suitor, 3 of 4

_**Chapter Ten: The Sixth Suitor**_ [Scene 5 of 6]

This time, for _this _duel, Tarrant refuses to be pushed back and up into a tree. Even if it means that bloody stomach ache of his has an easier time of finding him. He damns the courtiers – let them find out Alice is his! He doesn't care. She's already promised to bind his heart with her blood as his blood will bind hers. In the face of that, there is nothing these pathetic, petty, posturing nitwits can do.

Alice steps forward from between a rook and a bishop and it seems as if both she and Tarrant are of the same mind about the courtiers. She sweeps the crowd with her gaze until she finds him. And then she gives him a rather obvious and sincere smile.

Some nearby courtiers twitter behind their hands and send sideways glances at Tarrant. He doesn't take his attention off of his betrothed, not even when Stayne emerges from the opposite end to reluctant but polite applause. Tarrant feels his grin become strained. He wants to smack the lot of them across their powdered, painted faces. All _they _care about is not offending the challenger, in the event that he's chosen by the queen... or manages to slaughter her Champion.

_Alice... your promise!_

She faces Stayne now and the pair of them go through the ritual of removing the weapons they won't be using during the fight. Tarrant focuses on Stayne as the man removes a pair of daggers – one from his chest and another from his waist. A dirk strapped to his arm is removed by a knight and two pawns attend to his ankles. A quick glance assures that Alice is being subjecting to the same examination. An uncomfortable murmur goes through the hastily-gathered audience as weapon after weapon is removed from both the challenger and the Champion. Never before has such attention been paid to the removal of disallowed weapons!

When they both stand there in only shirtsleeves, trousers, and shoes, Nivens hops forward nervously. "Challenger! Queen's Champion! Choose your weapon!"

With bland smile, Stayne selects a broadsword. Tarrant tenses. He knows that Alice's arms are much shorter and her center of gravity is much lower than Stayne's, so her broadsword is a lot closer to being a _short-_sword than not. But Alice doesn't seem perturbed in the slightest. In fact, she seems to be almost _looking forward _to the fight.

Tarrant tries to borrow a bit of her confidence and tranquility – not enough that she'd notice, of course! Just to keep him from pulling the throwing knives from his gauntlets and taking care of Ilosovich Stayne... _permanently._

He keeps his fisted hands at his sides as Alice and Stayne don't _bow_ exactly... more like incline their heads briefly. No, Alice certainly doesn't trust him and she's let Stayne know it.

"The duel begins!" McTwisp announces shrilly, ringing the silver bell.

Tarrant tenses further, despite the bit of confidence and the tad of tranquility he'd gathered unbeknownst from Alice. With each perfectly executed stab or thrust and each successful block, Tarrant has to remind himself not to move. He cannot – _must not!_ – interfere with this fight, no matter how intense his desire to do just that. He watches his betrothed face the man Tarrant could have – _should have_ – killed three years ago on the Battle of Frabjous Day. So, close... Stayne's life had been _there_ for the taking and Tarrant had let his disgust at the death of the Jabberwocky stay his hand.

Killing Ilosovich Stayne: of all the immeasurably stupid things to have _not_ done!

The duel proceeds with perfectly-executed precision swordsmanship. Indeed, Tarrant has to admit, Alice has improved quite a lot since he'd last seen her fight with the sword. Her footwork is impeccable and her arms truly _are_ strong enough to wield the weapon she holds.

Still... Tarrant can't help being suspicious: Stayne isn't even trying to tire her. Does the man honestly think he'll be able to persuade the queen to accept his offer, or, failing that, allow him to return from exile?

The minutes wind and spin away despite the insistence of Tarrant's pocket watch to the contrary. He remains tense, however. Something is not right here. Something he should _know..._

Just as Nivens raises the silver bell to announce the end of required time, Stayne makes his move. Tarrant gasps as the man thrusts his blade _directly at Alice's __**heart!**_

She brings up her own sword and twists her torso. Each motion is _just _enough to save her life. Although it's not enough to save her shirt. Several courtiers giggle and look away as the fabric gapes open over Alice's chest. Tarrant stares at the unmarred flesh exposed over her heart and shoulder and upper arm until he's sure her lack of injury is not a hopeful delusion. He even sees the hint of the wrappings across her bust, but – thankfully – he does not see any blood.

Tarrant's traitorous body begins to relax.

Nivens rings the silver bell.

Alice, uncaring of her state of dress, turns back to a smiling Ilosovich Stayne.

It's the smile that reminds Tarrant that this contest is _not _over yet. A slow drumbeat of dread thuds against his breastbone and stomps his stomach against his spine.

_Careful, Alice! Watch him!_

She does. Unlike the previous duels, Alice does not charge him and finish the fight in a flurry of swordplay. She feels it too, then, he surmises. The bastard is Planning something...

"Tired, Alice?" Stayne wonders aloud.

She gives him a tight-lipped smile. Lifting her sword, they begin circling again. Tarrant notices her grip on the hilt: her knuckles are white. He glances up at her posture and notes, with relief, that she hasn't tensed up.

_Just a bit longer, Alice. Draw him in and finish it..._

She does. A thrust, and then another, and then she has the blade of her sword under Stayne's weapon. It will only take a sharp jerk to disarm him, send the blade flying over his arms and into the grass. Tarrant watches the disarming motion. In fact, he's so intent on Alice he almost misses the added momentum Stayne _intentionally_ gives the sword. With a lurch of his shoulder and twist of his wrist... faster than it ought, the sword slices through the air like a spear...

... directly at Tarrant.

It happens too fast for screams, gasps, or winces.

One instant, Stayne's sword is tangled with Alice's and the next the knave has used Alice's thrust and a calculated motion of his arm to send it hurtling at Tarrant's chest. The events occur too fast for Tarrant's mind to truly comprehend and, suddenly, he feels something hard at his back, knocking the air out of him as he falls. The flash of silver is the last thing he sees before darkness replaces everything.

* * *

[End of Chapter 10: Scene 5 of 6]


	30. Book 1, The Sixth Suitor, 4 of 4

_**Chapter Ten: The Sixth Suitor**_ [Scene 6 of 6]

Mirana's gasp is as belated as everyone else's. They all stare at the Royal Hatter, flat on the ground under the boughs of a cherry tree. In shock, Mirana doesn't immediately notice that her Champion and the challenger are still locked in combat.

Nivens' urgent order – "Challenger, stand down!" – gets her attention. On the pitch, Mirana watches as Stayne attempts to rip the broadsword from Alice's hands, but she holds on and kicks him rather soundly in a very... sensitive location.

With a snarl of rage, Stayne manages to tear the sword from Alice's grasp, but she gives it a bit of a nudge at the last moment, sending it spinning uselessly beyond his reach – and hers, too! – and across the pitch. Rather than fetch it, Stayne takes more direct action and grabs Alice's throat in his long-fingered hands.

"Guard!" the queen calls, frantically. But it's going to be too late. In the next instant, Stayne will snap her neck and toss her body aside...

But, strangely enough, it _doesn't _happen that way.

Alice grins through her teeth and some sort of liquid shoots out of her mouth and strikes the man in his remaining eye. He howls and scrabbles at his face. Alice has the garrote around his neck in the next instant and with a sharp twist of her hands and jerk of her shoulders...

It's over.

Stayne's body slumps to the pitch.

Mirana can only stare – it had all happened so fast, she hadn't even had a moment to consider flinching away from the sight of it.

The silence on the croquet pitch is unprecedented. Alice moves first. She gingerly unwraps her hands, now bloody, from the garrote which had sliced through her unprotected skin and spits something onto the grass. From where Mirana sits – and now stands – it looks very much like a much-chewed Grobben blossom. Abstractly, her knowledge of alchemy catalogs it: _When distilled, a highly intoxicating beverage, but when mashed raw and added with a warm solution, especially salt water, it creates an acidic blend that must not make contact with the eyes..._

"HATTER?"

Alice's shout snaps Mirana out of her daze. Picking up her skirts, the queen rushes toward the break in the spectators – to the place where Tarrant had fallen. Arriving, Miaran sees several courtiers picking themselves up as Bayard, his wife and pups apologize for any injuries they might have caused when they'd knocked Mirana's guests to safety.

"You near gave me a heart failure!" one shouts at a nearly-grown pup.

_It's a pity she hadn't_, Mirana thinks, before stopping short. She stares at Tarrant, flat on the ground, his eyes open and glazed.

"Look at me, you stubborn milliner!" Alice snarls, ignoring the wet towel Algernon is insistently offering, her bloody hands ripping open Tarrant's cravat. "The sword never even touched you!"

Startled, Mirana notices that's entirely true. Stayne's sword is quivering in the breeze right where it had cleaved the tree that Tarrant had been standing in front of. Calculating the height and depth of the strike, Mirana realizes Tarrant would not have survived if he hadn't fallen to the ground.

"Bayard, what's happened to him?" Mirana asks, struggling to find her bearings.

"Not sure, Your Majesty. The Hatter was Chessur's charge."

Mirana opens her mouth but Chessur appears before she can call for him. "No need to shout. I'm here, Your Majesty. The twit knocked his head against the tree when I pushed him down."

"You'd better hope you haven't damaged him... any more than he already is," Alice grumbles, having opened Tarrant's collar button and is now feeling his scalp through his bright hair. The queen notices she'd finally taken advantage of the towel and some healing ointment, but not before utterly ruining Tarrant's poor cravat.

"That'd be a difficult task, indeed, if you ask me," the cat drawls.

"I didn't."

A movement draws Mirana's eyes. She exhales a relieved breath as Tarrant's hand twitches and he blinks.

"... Alice?" It's not so much a word as a gasp.

"Right here. You're fine."

"... you?"

"I'm fine." She holds up her half-healed hands for him to inspect.

"... the garrote?" A faint smile twitches at the corners of his lips. "That's my Alice..."

Alice nods. "Yes. Stayne won't trouble us again."

His gaze un-focuses and his eyelashes flutter. "... ah... what can ye never catch but always get inteh?"

"Trouble," Alice answers, petting his hair.

Satisfied that there's no immediate emergency, Mirana straightens and waves to the courtiers. "Thank you all for coming today. If you'd like to stay for luncheon, Pondish and Lakerton are waiting to show you to the sunroom!" Glancing over her shoulder at the pitch and Stayne's body, Mirana is doubly glad that she hadn't ordered lunch to be served on the solarium terrace...

As the crowd moves off at the insistence of Bayard, Bayelle, and their pups, Mirana remains for a moment.

"You've got quite the bump back there," Alice tells the man still gazing up at her, dazed. "Just rest for a bit..."

"... Alice... we're under the cherry trees..."

"Yes, we are."

"... something I wanted to tell you under the cherry trees..."

"Well, what is it?"

Breathlessly, he murmurs, "We're betrothed. It's called the Thrice a-Vow. The Hightopp clan has used it for generations to control the hatter's madness. I'm sorry I didn't tell you before..." Mirana knows she should turn away; Tarrant's gaze has become frantic, a bit crazed... _vulnerable._ "So _slurvish_..." he continues. "Didn't want to hear you say 'no'... You're so young... beautiful... amazing, Alice... can't want... an old... mad hatter... like me... Do you... forgive...?"

Alice smiles into his still-not-quite-focused eyes. "Hatter?" she asks.

He swallows thickly. "Yes, Champion?"

Alice grasps Tarrant's left hand in hers and Mirana thinks she hears Alice whisper, "Why _is_ a raven like a writing desk?"

But no, Alice couldn't have said that, Mirana decides, turning away with a shake of her head. There's no reason at all for Tarrant's face to light up or his eyes to sparkle with delight or his lips to stretch into a wide grin at such a very odd phrase. Why, the man looks as if Alice has just professed her undying love.

Yes, for certain, Mirana had simply misheard that whispered confession.

"Has our resident mad hatter finally allowed his good sense to find him?"

Mirana resists glancing over her shoulder at the pair of will-be-lovers. She smiles at the cat perched above her head instead. "Either that or Alice has stumbled into his madness."

"Humph! I should hardly believe the latter. That girl's footwork is something to contend with. She can outmaneuver madness any day."

"Perhaps you're right," Mirana allows. Chessur follows her from tree to tree until, with a sudden thought, Mirana stops. "Chessur... what exactly was all that about? Knocking people over the instant Stayne's sword left his hand?"

Chessur – grining, of course – puffs up his furry chest. "That's our Alice, you know. During her interview with the knave he noticed her heart line and commented on it. Figured out she was betrothed to Tarrant. Until then, Alice had thought he'd merely try to kill her..."

"And not me?" This is a bit of a surprise.

"Oh, no. He'd force you to wed him first to legitimize his claim to the throne so no one would protest when you suddenly..." The Cheshire Cat clears his throat delicately.

"I see. So, Stayne _was_ intending to kill Alice... but why throw his sword at Tarrant and make it look like Alice had disarmed him so... poorly?"

"The Thrice a-Vow, Your Majesty."

Mirana frowns.

"Just before the end of the duel, Stayne cut away her shirt."

She wrinkles her nose in disgust. "Yes..."

"He cut it over her heart, where the heart line would have reached and developed _if_ she and Tarrant had completed all three exchanges."

"But they hadn't..."

"And therefore, Alice was still vulnerable _through _Tarrant."

Mirana sighs. "I'm afraid I still don't see the logic of that."

Chessur chuckles. "I'm merely repeating Alice's argument. I'm afraid I don't understand it entirely myself. _Uplanders_," he sighs. "Something about how Stayne would _have to_ try to kill Tarrant first since it would drive Alice mad and give him the upper hand..." The Cheshire Cat rubs his ear, thinking. "And then there was something about Tarrant having thrown sharp things at Stayne once or twice before. As Tarrant would be able to see an attack coming, and with him not being bound to the rules of conduct for duels, Stayne would be worried about Tarrant attacking him before he could properly slay Alice. And so Stayne would _have to _kill Tarrant first, in order to make dispatching Alice and forcing your hand in marriage feasible."

"Ah!" Mirana smiles. "Yes, of course! Silly of me not to see it sooner. Tarrant would not have hesitated to interfere in the duel if the attack hadn't been a complete surprise. In addition, if Stayne had so much as _sneezed_ on Alice, Tarrant would have killed him with one of those little knives he keeps on his person. Duel or no duel." _Perhaps I'm getting the hang of this Uplandian logic! _the queen muses. Confidently, she concludes, "Tarrant would never let anyone kill his Alice."

Chessur smiles back. "Just so, Your Majesty. He never has, and I dare say he never will."

* * *

[End of Chapter 10]


	31. Book 1, Through the Looking Glass, 1

_**Chapter Eleven: Through the Looking Glass**_ [Scenes 1 & 2 of 5]

Tarrant Hightopp is the happiest hatter in all of Underland.

Not that he's asked any other hatters to comment on their level of happiness, but he's quite sure none could _possibly be happier than __**he is!**_

"Whoops. Watch that ledge," Alice says from under his arm.

"Troublesome feet," he murmurs. "T'woul'be better were I a jar."

Alice chuckles. "Yes, then you'd fly."

"No feet," he agrees with a delighted sigh. He follows the garden path back to the castle with Alice pressed against his side and her arm around his waist. Tarrant could not have asked for a better distraction from his discomfort. Couldn't have imagined one, either. Even if he had sat down and given the subject a good, long pondering over a cup or three of Throeston Blend. Of course, things would be perfect if Alice were tucked snuggly against his side, her hip brushing his with every step, _without _the added botheration of painful injuries. (His head still throbs and things are a bit slippery, sliding like quicksilver in and out of focus in a way that would be quite worthy of lengthy study if not for the fact that the _only _thing he'd like to study at the moment - namely, Alice - he'd rather not have a distorted view of!)

As they step into the cool interior of the garden foyer, Tarrant notices the sound of clinking silverware and porcelain and wine glasses and idiotic chatter in the distance.

"Luncheon?" he asks.

"Yes."

"With the queen?"

"Undoubtedly. She'd never abandon her guests for any reason." Alice's tone seems to indicate that it would have been all right with _her _if the queen had canceled the festivities.

Personally, Tarrant can't think of a better reason to celebrate than the long-waited – _and anticipated!_ – death of Ilosovich Stayne. Tarrant is actually rather sorry he'd missed it.

_Must ask Mally for a exposition of that!_

Laughter echoes from down the hall where lunch is being served and another question occurs to Tarrant:

"Alice, why is the Champion here and not protecting the queen?"

Alice doesn't break stride as she maneuvers him to the staircase – he'd feared she might, actually; upon being reminded of her duties, she might have sat him down on the steps and run off! – but she merely maneuvers him close to the railing and begins to climb.

She replies, "Chessur's taking care of it. He can become a Jabberwocky now. That's _much_ more frightening than _I_ could ever be."

Tarrant mulls that over. "I... found you quite frightening when you were angry with me."

She laughs. "Well, that's something, I suppose."

"And then after the Trial of Threes, when I'd woken up and you had just... left... That was _very_ frightening."

Alice pauses at the top of the stairs – thus causing Tarrant to pause with her, as her arm is still tight around his waist – and places her opposite hand against his cheek. He can't help but notice that this motion brings her body into fuller, closer – _better! _– contact with his own. "I'm sorry," she says and he has to struggle to recall what it is that she's apologizing for.

_Ah, yes. _He remembers now!

Tarrant closes his eyes briefly, then makes himself look into her eyes – _this is more important than how close she's standing, lad! _– as he asks, "Did it... frighten _you_? The Trice a-Vow?"

He watches the emotions – so many! – form and reform in her expressions.

"I... it's complicated."

"There are two more flights of stairs yet. Let's take it step-by-step."

"All right," Alice replies, guiding him down the hall to the next set. "At first, I couldn't believe it was possible. I'd thought... I don't know, that it must be some sort of cosmic joke. Somehow you and I had started this little ritual that was actually _real!_"

Tarrant giggles. "You ought to know Underland better than that by now. _Everything_ is real here!"

"Even dreams," she agrees. "The rest of it is just as I said yesterday. Either you'd known about the rite all along and that's why the first exchange affected you so strongly –"

He tries his best not to look _too _embarrassed about that swoon.

" – because you'd realized what we'd done and you hadn't intended to – and then you'd agreed to do the second because it wouldn't have been gentlemanly to refuse..."

"Or?" he prompts. His memories from the day before are a bit hazy and things are finally starting to make sense now. At least in an Alice way.

"Or you hadn't known about it _either_ and the queen had noticed our heart lines and had given you that book to read."

A few more steps pass in silence as Tarrant struggles with his shame. "I knew."

"I see that now."

Thinking he hears a hint of reproach in her tone, he hastens to explain, "No, not... that is, the first exchange... perhaps I was... I didn't realize until you'd exclaimed and, at the time, I'd thought it must have been a pin in my cuff – I sometimes keep pins in my cuff – and that providence was smiling on us and then I just... I opened my eyes and I was... your blood was... and it was too late to stop, but I _never_ thought you would... I mean, there was _no reason _for you to reciprocate... but then _you __**did**_... and I thought, 'This stops now!' but you smiled... you _smiled_, Alice, and suddenly I was... we were..."

Again, Alice stops them. She raises her fingers to his lips and then replaces them with her own. Eyes wide, Tarrant gapes as she brushes her mouth against his in a soft, chaste kiss. "Like that?" she asks, leaning back a bit.

"Not... Well, that's not quite how I remember it..."

"What did I forget?"

Tarrant watches as his hand rises – _again without his permission!_ – and slides into her hair. "Ye promised no'teh forget me."

"And that includes the minute details of a kiss?"

And there! Alice gives him that secret, knowing smile that had precipitated their first kiss. It calls to him _irresistibly._

"Aye..."

Tarrant lowers his mouth to hers for the softest of kisses and brushes his lips against hers. And then – _Yes! Just like that!_ – her lips part and Tarrant savors this second chance at their first kiss. He doesn't shake or shudder with uncertainty or madness this time. The tip of his tongue glides between her lips in a slow, shallow slide... and then he pulls away.

After a moment, she opens her eyes. Tarrant studies the faint flush on her cheeks and the glazed softness of her gaze. "Is that how you remember it?" she asks.

"Aye. You?"

"It's... becoming clearer."

"Perhaps you need another reminder?" he dares to inquire.

"One more," she agrees. "At the very least."

He obliges.

* * *

Alice hasn't ever thought of herself as much of a flirt, but she must have _some_ latent talent for it. How else can she explain receiving four very _enjoyable_ reminders of that first kiss before they even arrive at Tarrant's apartment? She can feel the heat in her face and knows she's flushed. It also doesn't help matters – "matters" meaning her own personal sense of equilibrium – that she's more aware of the solid warmth of his body than ever before. If she's honest with herself – _Oh, why bother?_ – she'd have to admit that Tarrant is perfectly capable of making his way to his rooms unaided. But, as he hasn't complained, she hasn't let go of him.

Arriving at his door, she leans across to grasp the doorknob but Tarrant is faster. He gently collects her hand in his and Alice has a clear, unobstructed view of his heart line. She watches her thumb slide over it.

"Will it always stay this color?" It _is _a rather _vivid_ red, after all...

"No. It'll darken with the last exchange."

"And after that?" she asks, lifting his cuff a bit and studying the lines as they trail and twist up and over his wrist.

"They will never change," he replies in a soft whisper.

Her fingertips uncover one more inch of skin before a touch in her hair distracts her. Looking up – and into violet-hued eyes – Alice gives herself over to one more reminder... _Just one more!_ Only, she quickly realizes, this one is not a reminder of their first kiss. It has far too much in common with their _second_, although, Alice concedes, perhaps now's not the time to bother with such distinctions.

Tarrant's mouth presses against hers in a way that makes her torn shirt and the vest Algernon had silently delivered to her under the cherry tree earlier seem both far too inadequate and far too cumbersome. His lips are insistent and warm. And when hers part for him in helpless reaction, his teeth scrape lightly over them. His left hand captures her arm and, curling around her clenched fist, presses it over his heart. Her fingers brush against his jacket collar and grasp it desperately, pins and all.

The kiss deepens and now he's inside her mouth and she's marveling at the taste of him: sweet, as before, but somehow so _real_... His arms tighten around her and the distance closes between them. (Had she moved or had he?) The hand on his lapel becomes an obstacle and she runs it up his chest and curls it around the back of his neck.

Where their second kiss had ended with her first gasp for breath, this one doesn't. Tarrant laps at her lips while she drags air into her lungs and then covers her mouth with his again. Alice is peripherally aware of motion, of being moved, of the doorknob pressing against her hip...

"Oy! Move it to a room, if you _don't __**mind**_!"

Startled, Alice turns toward the voice and stares down at the frowning keyhole.

"About _time _you noticed!" it grumps. "I've been clearing my throat and begging your pardon for the last five minutes!"

"Oh..." Alice says and winces at her rather inadequate response. In the suddenly awkward silence, she glances at Tarrant from under her lashes just as he offers her a sheepish expression. She bites her lip to keep from laughing but ends up snorting instead. Tarrant giggles.

"Oh, bloody _great_," the keyhole grouses. "Like that _chortling_ is any better!"

Alice reaches down and twists the doorknob, stepping quickly into the room as it opens.

"_Thank you!_" the keyhole sighs a bit spitefully.

Tarrant doesn't take his gaze – still violet! – off of Alice as he follows her across the threshold.

"Hatter! You _missed __**everything!**_"

Alice blinks and turns at Mally's cry of despair. She gapes at the sight of the Tweedles, Bayard and his family, Thackery, Nivens, and – of course – Mally all sitting around Tarrant's dinner table with empty plates and teacups. With a glance at the teapot – which has steam issuing from its spout – Alice suppresses a groan. Tarrant's fingertips gently touch her lower back as he guides her to an empty chair. His eyes are green, again, she notes, although he still looks a trifle sheepish.

"The next time Chessur feels it necessary to knock a tree into me, I'll be sure to raise your objection," Tarrant replies gamely and holds out Alice's chair.

Bowing to the inevitability of afternoon tea, Alice sinks down into her seat and summons a smile for Bayelle.

"It's nice to finally see you at tea," Alice says quietly, serving her a slice of lemon cake.

At the center of the table, Mally begins reenacting the final moments of the duel, to which Tarrant gives his undivided attention.

Bayelle ignores the performance and, with a wise look, responds, "It's nice to finally see you with Tarrant."

"It's nice to finally _be _with Tarrant."

"Then all is as it should be," the she-hound comments. "Pass the tea?"

_Oh, iambic pentameter_, Alice thinks and, smiling, reaches for the teapot.

* * *

[End of Chapter 11: Scenes 1 & 2 of 5]


	32. Book 1, Through the Looking Glass, 2

_**Chapter Eleven: Through the Looking Glass**_ [Scene 3 of 5]

The funeral for Ilosovich Stayne is not so much a ceremony as a necessity. Mirana attends to ensure that the man who had murdered her sister – thereby thwarting any attempt Iracebeth might have made at redemption or even reconciliation – would stay decently dead. Beside her, Alice – the woman who had killed him – stands in attendance and, beside her, Tarrant Hightopp – the man who had nearly killed Stayne three years ago and likely regrets not finishing the task – remains silent and pensive.

Mirana can understand her own motivation for being here, despite all the history – some pleasant but mostly not – with the deceased. She can understand Tarrant's motivations as well, for although they are as varied as her own they are still quite evident: there, in his clenched fists, she reads the need to be _sure_ that the man who had tried to take his Alice away from him will never again be a threat. And _there,_ in his pale, unfocused eyes, she reads the memory of that Horvendush Day when Stayne had led the Jabberwocky to Hightopp Village and Tarrant's time spent in the Red Queen's jail just before Frabjous Day. It's very clear that both the queen and Tarrant have come here to bury their pain. But Alice...

Mirana frowns. Over the last two days, she has never seen Alice or Tarrant so happy. Despite the misunderstandings and turmoil, they've managed to grasp the joy that has always danced just beyond their reach. But here, at this somber, sparse gathering of people, Mirana watches Alice stare at the scars on her hands – from the garrote she'd used to dispatch Stayne; unfortunately the cuts had been too deep for the Pain Paste to heal completely – and the queen wonders why her Champion has chosen to be here today.

Tarrant accepts Mirana's offer of tea once the service has been completed. No one had spoken except the funeral director – a buzzard by the name of Cloughcloth – and that had seemed fitting: Stayne had loved no one in his life and it follows that, in his death, no one would mourn him.

Alice neither accepts nor declines the offer of tea, but seems to follow in Tarrant's wake, her mind on other things. Mirana continues to puzzle over her Champion's behavior as Alice ignores her tea, stares at her cucumber sandwiches, and often gazes silently off into the distance. It's not until Tarrant offers to escort her to the croquet field for her daily exercises with the guard that she seems aware of her surroundings at all.

After her guests have left, the queen considers her Champion's odd silence. Still puzzled, Mirana moves around the table and takes Alice's seat, hoping to gain some insight. She lifts her gaze and looks in the direction that had so mesmerized her Champion all afternoon and is startled to find her reflection staring back from a looking glass.

Odd, certainly, but not... worrying.

The day following the funeral, the queen glances out the window at the sounds of battle on the pitch, and frowns when Alice seems to be putting a bit too much effort into her training. More than once, the bishop finds itself on its back. And, on one particularly memorable occasion, Alice doesn't halt her attack and the poor fellow only just manages to scramble out of the way at the last possible moment. Strange, certainly, but not a cause for concern.

On the day following _that_, it rains and the queen floats past Alice's door to see if she's available for brunch. Only, Alice doesn't hear her knock nor does she respond when Mirana cracks open the door and calls her name. Upon opening the door fully, Mirana finds Alice sitting with her legs folded on the rug in front of the standing mirror. Just... looking. Eventually, Mirana gets her attention and they have tea. But, again, Alice offers very little in the way of conversation.

The next day is cool and cloudy and the pitch is still soft and wet so there are no training exercises for the second day in a row. The sounds in the corridor indicate to Mirana (as she takes refuge from ennui in her laboratory) that Alice is sitting in the hat workshop several doors down. After all, Tarrant doesn't _normally _talk to himself when he works... And especially not about his childhood or family! But, unless her ears are deceiving her (as they had under the cherry trees! A raven and a writing desk, indeed!) there's no other way to interpret the bits and phrases she catches between the whirr and clatter of the sewing machine and the stacking and un-stacking of hatboxes.

It's the day after that when Mirana looks up from her desk as Tarrant enters her office, and – before she can offer him tea – announces with frustrating brevity, "Alice."

"How is Alice?"

"Barely."

"I beg your pardon?"

"_She's barely Alice!_"

"What's happened?" Mirana demands, thinking her Champion must be ill. She begins to compile a list ointments and antidotes from memory. Would the acid from a Grobben plant affect Uplanders differently than...?

Tarrant twists his cuffs helplessly. "I asked her why a raven is like a writing desk..."

Mirana recognizes the riddle; it's the very same one she'd convinced herself she'd misheard Alice tell him under the cherry trees just a week ago. The one Tarrant had once asked an imaginary Alice every Saturday at teatime during that Dark Year. "Yes?"

His shoulders twitch and his gaze is restless. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" Whether it's Hatter Logic or Uplander Logic doesn't seem to matter. Perhaps she ought to look into hiring a Royal Translator...

He nods. "She didn't ask me. She's _supposed to ask me_ and I'm supposed to tell her I haven't the slightest idea, but _she di'nae __**ask me.**_"

Despite not being able to grasp the significance of the riddle, Mirana does realize that this ritual – odd though it seems – _is _significant to Tarrant and Alice.

"It's none of my business, of course, but... you haven't quarreled, have you?"

"I don't _think _so..."

Mirana can think of nothing helpful to say.

"Perhaps if I... Yes, an apology is called for in this instance..."

"An apology for what?" she asks, bemused.

Tarrant smiles. "I haven't the faintest idea, but it's always a good place to start!"

Mirana watches him go and continues staring at the closed door for a long moment. And then, unable to ignore her curiosity and concern, especially when they pair themselves together, she gets up and follows him upstairs to Alice's room.

"... wanted to say that... What I mean is that... I apologize," she hears Tarrant say very clearly. It seems odd that Alice's door is open for this conversation, but with the castle once again empty of guests, there's no reason for the Royal Hatter and the Queen's Champion to _not _expect privacy. For an instant, Mirana feels guilty.

"You apologize," Alice repeats woodenly. The tone alarms Mirana and overcomes her discomfort. "For what?"

"What I've done," Tarrant replies still sounding confident.

"What have you done?"

"Something to upset you."

"How have you upset me?"

"I... am not sure." A note of uncertainty enters Tarrant's tone. "Perhaps if you could remind me of my transgression?"

There's a _very _long pause. Mirana actually holds her breath.

"_You've_ done nothing that requires an apology."

Another beat of silence pulses between them and Mirana can only imagine the flickering of Tarrant's eyes and his ever-changing expressions as he processes that. "Has someone else done something that requires an apology?" he ventures.

Alice sighs. "I'm tired." Mirana can hear her exhaustion and frustration and... something else in her voice. "Just go away. Please."

_Oh!_ Mirana covers her mouth with a hand to quiet her gasp. _Alice has never behaved so wretchedly! At least, not with Tarrant Hightopp!_

There's a squeak of a floorboard and a rustle of fabric. "Alice, please..." Tarrant whispers. "Why is a raven like a writing desk?" Silence stretches out the door and down the hall. "Alice... please?"

He waits. Mirana feels the minutes pass but Alice doesn't say anything else. Finally, when Tarrant emerges from the room, leaving the door open, he turns toward the queen. She thinks to offer some explanation for her presence, but he doesn't seem the least bit bothered by her intrusion.

Tarrant walks over to her and speaks quietly, "She's hurt. Somewhere. Alice has always let me fix her. Well... except after confronting the Jabberwocky, but with the... various locations of those injuries, I wouldn't expect... Well... otherwise she _always _lets me fix her!" He gives Mirana a solemn, woeful look. "Why won't Alice let me fix her now?"

Why, indeed. "Let me talk to her," Mirana whispers back.

"Talk, aye. _You_ can talk to _her._" His expression hardens with frustration. "The thing I've yet to come by is an _answer._"

Unfortunately, Tarrant is right. Mirana talks and talks and _talks._ And then she waits and waits and... waits a bit more, but Alice never looks away from the mirror.

"What fascination does the looking glass hold for you, Alice?" Mirana asks, wondering if this question will be ignored as the rest have been.

"My scars," Alice whispers, reluctantly. "I'm always surprised to see them. Sometimes I don't notice them if I look through the mirror."

Mirana regards Alice's hands. The scars are still pink and slightly raised. "Why would you dislike them? They're a mark of honor, of victory, of –"

"Murder."

The word is so softly and so briefly spoken, the queen almost misses it. "... murder?"

"Do you think I have the right to touch anyone with these hands? Especially Tarrant? _He's_ never killed anyone. _He _didn't killed Stayne, even when he _could have._ _I _did that."

In her lap, Alice's hands fist. "Sometimes, it's so easy for me to forget that all of this is _real._" She laughs but she cries, too. At the same time. Mirana's heart twists at the sight of it. "Alice Kingsleigh would _never_ have killed anyone. She _never _would have picked up a sword or wrestled a hatter or made a blood vow...!" Alice lifts her left hand and touches the surface of the mirror with her fingertips. "On the other side, there's a world where Alice Kingsleigh is still... _good._" Alice's gaze slides from the mirror and settles on her left hand, on the scars, on the heart line. "Do you think my mother and sister have had m—the funeral yet?"

Beginning to grasp the fever gripping her Champion's mind, Mirana blinks back her own tears. This is _her _fault, the queen knows. She should not have pushed Alice, encouraged and invited her to take up the Champion's duties again and again and again. Mirana wants to apologize, but bites back the words. An apology hadn't gotten Tarrant very far, after all.

Clearing her throat, Mirana asks, "Would you like to see your mother, Alice?"

"I'm... not sure. Would she be able to see me?"

"Not if you stay on this side of the looking glass."

Alice considers that. "Yes, I'd like to see her."

"All right, then close your eyes," Mirana begins. "Now, imagine a room in your mother's home that has a looking glass. Do you see it?"

Eyes closed, Alice nods.

"Imagine where the mirror is... Now, _become _that mirror, Alice. Feel your skin become cool to the touch and smooth. Picture the light as it comes in through the windows of the room... See how it reflects just so off of the furniture? The knickknacks? The rugs and wallpaper?" Mirana watches as Alice breathes, calm. Even Alice's spark of life has been pulled back, tucked in, hidden. Alice might as well be a piece of furniture in this room. In that moment, Mirana knows Alice is ready to open the looking glass.

"And now, pass your right hand between your eyes and the room beyond... Yes, just like that... Unveil the looking glass in the room Alice – look, now."

She does. Mirana remains at Alice's side and studies the room through the mirror. It's luxurious and well-kept. A lady's bedchamber.

"Your mother's room?" Mirana asks.

"Yes."

And there, at the vanity, an older woman, still slim and handsome, sits with perfect posture. A music box is open beside her elbow. A stack of letters sits inside the keepsake compartment. Mirana doesn't have to struggle to identify the handwriting; she knows they're Alice's letters.

"How much time has passed... there?" Alice asks in a hushed whisper.

"I cannot say," Mirana replies. "Time is different in each world."

"Could I... step through?"

Mirana hesitates. "You could, but without someone to keep the looking glass open... You might spend a half an hour speaking with your mother in Upland, but days... _weeks_... could pass in Underland. Or, you might only be gone an instant. There's no way to know."

"How did Tarrant know my ship was sinking?"

Mirana blinks at the sudden return to an old issue. "I'd taken to leaving the looking glass open to your cabin, looking only when I was sure I wouldn't be intruding. It was that very morning, when the storm seemed to start on your side, that I told Tarrant that I'd been... watching you for some time. He was there, watching you write your report, when the ship overturned. And he brought you through because, as I mentioned before, I'd already promised not to."

"He could have released you from your promise."

"Yes, he could have."

"Why didn't he?"

"You'll have to ask him that yourself, Alice."

There is no response to Mirana's quiet challenge. They watch as the door opens and Alice's mother turns. A maid speaks and moves aside to let Mrs. Kingsleigh pass. The door closes.

"I want to talk to her. Can I?" Alice says.

Mirana places her hand on Alice's shoulder. "You can. But be careful, Alice. Perhaps she has not yet heard about your ship..."

"I could... touch her, couldn't I?" Alice asks. "I could... go back."

"Yes, you could," Mirana replies, then, daringly, touches the scars on Alice's hands and the heart line. "But your hands would look no different, Alice. You cannot erase all that has happened."

"I could forget... there. I forgot before..."

Mirana is silent for a long moment. "Do you really believe you could?"

"I..." Alice swallows. "I _want _to believe... I'm not sure if I _like_ what I've become..."

"And what have you become, Alice? You are a strong fighter, a protector, a _Champion._"

For the first time since Mirana had entered her room, Alice looks at her. "If I'm those things, _why did I kill Stayne __**even though I considered LETTING HIM LIVE?**_"

It's not a shout, but the intensity of the emotion steals Mirana's breath.

"I considered it. I thought 'Let him live. Let him be punished by the queen.' ... And then I twisted the garrote. Because... because..." Alice closes her eyes. "I _don't know __**why I did it.**_"

Mirana can think of nothing to say.

"Can you imagine what that's like? Not knowing _why_ you've done something? Not knowing if, next time, you'll even think of stopping? Not knowing if, next time, you won't even feel regret?"

"No, Alice, I can't imagine it," Mirana replies with brutal honesty. "But I think Tarrant might. How often do you think his madness has taken him over completely? How often do you think he's come back to himself and not known where he is, how he got there, or what he'd done in the meantime?" The queen pets her Champion's hair with gentle motions. "I may be your friend, Alice, but Tarrant still knows you best. As you know him best. Sometimes," Mirana concludes, "even though it _seems _as if we ought to know ourselves best of all, it's those we love who _truly_ understand us. Especially when we don't understand ourselves."

Alice's eyes had remained closed throughout Mirana's small speech and now she shudders. Moments pass and the clock ticks softly, regularly. The door to Alice's room is still open and Mirana would wager her kingdom against a teaspoon of mouldy snail slime that Tarrant hasn't left his place against the wall beside the doorway.

"I..."

Mirana's hand drops from Alice's hair to her arm. "Yes?"

"I'm..."

The queen waits.

Alice takes a shuddering breath. In silence, tears squeeze out from between her closed eyelids. In a small, choked voice, Alice says, "I'm ready for Tarrant to fix me now."

That is – apparently – all he has to hear. In the next instant, Tarrant is in the room, helping the queen to her feet and then seating himself on the floor next to Alice and gathering her into his arms. He whispers against her hair in his thick brogue and Mirana distracts herself from trying to understand the words. This time, she doesn't eavesdrop. But she does close the door on her way out.

* * *

[End of Chapter 11: Scene 3 of 5]


	33. Book 1, Through the Looking Glass, 3

_**Chapter Eleven: Through the Looking Glass**_ [Scenes 4 & 5 of 5]

Tarrant damns Ilosovich Stayne every minute of every hour of every day that Alice struggles with her conscience. Often, Time finds them on the same sofa or settee or terrace wall or even armchair, with Tarrant's arms around her shoulders and her hands grasping his elbows or jacket lapels. In these moments, the silence is absolute, total, accepting, like being at peace, like feeling the blanket of the earth settle over one's head, laying one to rest.

Yes, that's what he and Alice are doing: resting.

After a while, she always says, "I had a choice."

And he always answers, "Aye, ye did."

"I killed him."

"Aye."

"If I'm ever _not_ upset about that..."

"I'll say, 'Ye ought teh care who ye kill.'"

"Yes... I ought."

Tarrant doesn't tell her how guilty he feels about this. Alice does not need _his_ remorse, too. Any offer to remove her pain might upset her balance and send her tumbling back through the looking glass... and _that _Tarrant suspects he would not be able to survive.

So he doesn't tell her about that instant during her duel with Stayne when he'd _known _something had been about to happen. He doesn't tell her about that moment of frustration when he'd tried so _hard _to remember something he ought to know...

_Stayne had noticed the heart line..._

Tarrant had heard it all – the entire interview from inside the alchemy cupboard – and although Alice had realized that knowledge would change Stayne's plans, Tarrant hadn't. If he had, he might have chosen to stand a bit further from that bloody tree. He might not have been knocked out when he'd been pushed down. He might have thrown a knife at Stayne's hand, stopping him from choking Alice. He might have thrown a knife at Stayne's throat and saved Alice this internal conflict.

Yes, if Tarrant had known then what he knows now, he would have intervened. Even if it had meant harming Alice. He flinches to think it, but he would have thrown one of his own knives at her to stay her hand.

But then, would she have always wondered... If he'd interrupted her, stopped her, would she have always wondered if she _could have _killed a man. If "a man" is, in fact, what Stayne had been. Tarrant isn't so sure on that point.

"Stayne was a monster," he'd told her once.

Alice had merely shaken her head and argued back, "The Jabberwocky was a monster and we see how that turned out."

Aye, Alice had killed it and then tried to kill it a second time without considering any other options. Sometimes, Tarrant wants to shake some sense into her.

_Perhaps when she's feeling better._

He's looking forward to doing a lot of things when she's feeling better, actually. But for now, they rest. Tarrant is a little surprised by how soothing this time is for him, too. As the queen had told Alice as they'd sat in front of the mirror, there had been many times when Tarrant had come to his senses in a strange place and had wondered what he had done while in the grip of that madness, had wondered what he'd been capable of...

In a way, he's relieved that Alice has already found the answer to her own version of that question: she knows what she's capable of – she doesn't _like_ the answer, but she _knows _it. Tarrant may never know his own limits. He may never have the chance to face the monster within him, whatever form it takes or sins it enjoys.

Although, when he sees Alice sitting on the rug in front of her mirror, when his entire being freezes in terror – _Is she going to leave?_ – he thinks he glimpses that beast within him. He thinks he knows what lengths he would go to in order to keep her. He remembers the first exchange of blood; at the time, he'd been surprised by the fact that Alice's heart-line finger had been pricked. But, Tarrant is ashamed to admit that he'd never asked her what had _really_ happened. In the grip of madness, had he pressed the pin to her finger with deliberate intent? Had he done that? He'd like to think he hadn't forced that upon her, no matter how simple it would have been to reverse. He'd like to think it very much.

So, he doesn't ask.

And he doesn't ask her if she wants to leave, if she wants to return to Upland. They both know that would be impossible _now_.

But _after _the third exchange...

Tarrant buries his face in her hair and closes his eyes.

_After the third exchange, she __**could**_ _leave, and you wouldn't be able to do a thing about it, lad._

His mind would be safe... or as safe as it has ever been, as would hers. For as long as they both live. (Tarrant refuses to think of the state of his heart; yes, he has realized exactly what that odd center-of-his-chest stomach ache had actually been. In fact, it had taken quite a lot of effort to lie to himself about it as long as he had.) But the vow will not _force _them to remain together. Alice could go back... marry someone else... forget about Underland entirely, forget Tarrant... He wouldn't be able to stop her.

_A bit more Time,_ he pleads silently with the entity that has turned its back on him. He needs just a little longer to open her eyes to what _she __**could**_ _be_ here in Underland... what _they __**could**_ _be... __**together.**_

He damns Ilosovich Stayne for the dire straights Tarrant finds himself in now. He wishes for his previous ignorance: only a fortnight ago, Tarrant had been sure that _having _Alice would be the same as _keeping _her.

Now, he knows differently.

* * *

"Are you sure you wish to do this?" the queen asks.

Alice nods, smoothing the long, blue jacket over her hips. The last time she'd worn these clothes, she'd been trapped in her cabin aboard a sinking ship. She remembers those moments with difficulty. Some things she can't recall at all – the level of the water, the temperature of it, if she'd been wearing shoes or not. And yet other things she recalls with such vivid clarity that she _feels _it – Tarrant's blazing orange eyes, his mercury-stained, battered fingers reaching for her, the scent of the seawater-saturated wood, the rush of the air as it had been churned with the incoming deluge.

With difficulty, she keeps her body from shivering. "Thank you for the boots," she says.

"Of course," the queen says. "You never ask for anything, Alice. The least I can do is provide you with footwear you're familiar with."

Alice models the boots. They don't look very much like the ones she'd worn at sea, but she doesn't think anyone will notice. With no task left to do, no reason left to delay any longer, Alice turns around and regards the full-length mirror in her room. Mirana stands to the side.

"Thank you for helping me," Alice tells her friend, her queen.

"Again, it's the least I can do."

Again, Alice nods. Words seem so out of place considering what she's about to do. "If you see Tarrant, tell him..."

"I shall."

With a tense smile, Alice focuses on the looking glass, on the shadowy room in the world beyond, and steps through.

Stepping through a looking glass is an odd sensation, she thinks, feeling the cool glass warm against her skin... warm and then relent to her intrusion and she has to shove with her toes to make it though what feels like a solid wall of air. Emerging, she gasps. The scent of her mother's perfume hits her first and Alice feels the tears she'd been denying burst forth.

Despite the ache in her heart, Alice grasps the sides of the mirror frame and pulls herself the rest of the way through. Her boots touch the carpet – she'd forgotten how soft it is! Not at all like the thin rugs at Mamoreal! – and Alice gives herself a moment to wipe her tears away and absorb something that ought to be as familiar as her own skin, but, strangely enough, isn't. But then, these last few months, even Alice's skin has changed, hasn't it? Suddenly nervous, Alice checks to make sure her heart line is still completely concealed under her glove and jacket sleeve.

With a deep breath, she gives her mother's sleeping figure a long glance before moving to the vanity. She's given a lot of thought to this meeting and Alice wants to be sure... Yes, there on the vanity is the missive with the offical seal of Her Majesty's Navy. Opening the letter Alice hadn't been able to read through the looking glass, she sees it's the one she'd expected: everyone believes her dead now. Lost at sea with the crew and Lord Ascot's steam clipper.

Alice puts the letter down and turns. On the bed, her mother's face looks haggard and exhausted. From grief.

_It's time to do something about that._..

Alice moves quietly to the bedside and gently sits on the edge. Taking her mother's hand in one of her own, Alice raises the other and gently tucks a few stray grey hairs back under the white night cap. After a few moments of this, her mother's mouth twitches and her eyelashes flutter.

"Mother...?"

Mrs. Kingsleigh's eyes open slowly, still clouded with sleep. "Alice?"

Alice hides a wince at the utter _lostness _in her mother's tone, the frailty and pain. "Yes, it's me."

"Alice!" The older woman struggles to sit up in bed. Gently, Alice holds her back against the pillows.

"Everything's all right, Mother. You're dreaming."

"I'm...? But you..." Thin, warm hands grasp Alice's arms. "You feel so real!"

"Everything feels real in dreams," Alice reminds her. "Remember the odd one I used to have? Again and again?"

"Oh... yes. But, Alice... Your... What...?"

"The ship sank; it's true. I'm afraid that really happened," Alice says softly. "I was in my cabin. It was over quickly."

Tears glisten in the dim light. It's a full moon tonight, Alice realizes, and it's hovering just beyond the window on the far wall. Gently, she wipes her mother's cheeks with a borrowed handkerchief: Tarrant's.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm _fine_. I'm fine. I'm in a wonderful place, Mother, and there are so many friends there... Friends I never even knew I had. And there's someone who loves me very much..."

Alice is quietly startled when she realizes that this is very true. Tarrant _does _love her. Perhaps a bit desperately sometimes, but no more than... _Oh!_ Alice blinks as she realizes that _she _loves _him_ a bit desperately in return as well.

She says none of this aloud. In a subdued tone, she assures her mother, "Where I am now, I have someone I can hold onto when I need to. Someone who holds onto me, too. I'm not alone."

Mrs. Kingsleigh sobs quietly and Alice fights to keep her expression peaceful. "Don't be sad, Mother. Everything is fine."

"I... don't know what I shall do without you, Alice."

"I know... I know... It all seems so impossible now, but you'll be all right, and I know this because _I am._" And, suddenly, Alice knows that she really, truly _is _all right.

She blinks back her own tears as her mother raises her hands to touch Alice's face. "Your hair's so short, darling..."

"A concession to life at sea," Alice lies easily.

"Oh..."

"I don't know if you'll remember this when you wake up, but... I love you, Mother."

"Oh, Alice! _I __**love**_ _you!_"

Alice lets her mother pull her down into an embrace. After a long moment, after conquering the writhing mass of words and platitudes and promises lodged in her throat, Alice whispers, "Give my love to Margaret?"

Mrs. Kingsleigh nods. "Just... don't go. Not yet, Alice, don't go..."

"It's all right. Everything's fine. This is just a dream. And I'm in a good place now. I'm happy. I'm safe. There, there..." Alice croons, petting her mother's wet cheeks. "I have to go back soon – everyone's waiting for me – and you need to sleep..."

"... Alice..."

She watches as her mother closes her eyes and, gradually, relaxes against the pillows. She lingers until she's sure her departure won't disturb the woman who might not have always understood her, but had loved her nevertheless.

A part of Alice doesn't want to leave, but she knows she must. She must go back through the looking glass and the life that's waiting for her there. _This _Alice Kingsleigh is no more. _This _life is over. Now she will face the next one: The one she'd chosen. The one she'll build with a mad hatter named Tarrant Hightopp.

Carefully, she stands and, with a determined breath, steps up to the looking glass and then into it.

* * *

[End of Chapter 11]


	34. Book 1, Promises Kept, 1 of 4

_**Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept **_[Scene 1 of 4]

The life – the world – that Alice returns to through the looking glass is not the same one she'd left. She takes in the toppled furniture, shards of a once-was-water pitcher and matching basin, overturned table and tangled rug. Gasping, she struggles to move faster through the pressure of the mirror. When her ears emerge, the noise makes her flinch.

"Mirana?" Alice reaches out and, thankfully, her friend is there to lend a hand. Careful not to actually _pull_ Alice – still mindful of her promise to Tarrant from which he'd never released her – the queen holds still and Alice pulls _herself _back into Underland.

Sometime _after_ her booted feet stumble out of the mirror but _before_ realizing that her arms are covered in goose bumps, Alice identifies the deafening noise.

"_LE' ME __**GO**__! I'M GOIN' AFTE'HER – YE __**CANNAE STOP ME**__!_"

On the far side of the bed, Alice sees two men – two identical men – struggling on the floor. She recognizes Chessur by the irritated look on his "Hatter" face and rational – if narrowed – green eyes. Tarrant, on the other hand...

"Are his eyes... red?" Alice croaks.

"I'm afraid they are."

Turning, Alice glances at the queen and gasps. "Are _you_ all right?"

Mirana gives her a brave smile. "Yes, nothing a hair brush and a bit of needle-and-thread won't fix." She nods in Tarrant's direction. "I'm sorry, Alice, he saw me standing next to the mirror and..." She sighs. "He didn't listen..."

"Of course he didn't," Alice growls, tearing off her jacket. The fewer reminders from her old life, the better.

"We'll stay until you calm him down."

"Then make yourself comfortable," Alice invites over Tarrant's next roar of fury.

"_DI'YE THINK YE CAN KEEP ME _**_HERE?_** _DON'YE __**DARE**_ _CLOSE THA' LOOKIN'GLASS 'AFORE I'M THROUGH!_"

Alice strides over to the pair of hatters, one significantly madder than the other. As she draws nearer, Alice notices that there's no logic, no rational thought whatsoever in Tarrant's eyes. If he hadn't already destroyed her water pitcher and soaked the rug, Alice might have emptied it directly on his face, but as there _is _no water available for throwing...

Alice pulls off her left glove – the only one she'd worn through the mirror – and unbuttons her cuffs for greater ease of movement. Moving closer, she takes in Chessur's clenched teeth as he keeps his arms and legs locked around Tarrant who writhes and thrashes as if possessed.

_How is it I always manage to hurt him so badly?_

Alice kneels gingerly on the floor and reaches out her hand to his face. She places her hand against his forehead and temple and... something... flickers in the depths of his eyes, but in the next moment it's gone. He shudders violently and renews his wild struggles. Alice ducks under his flailing arm and tries again.

"Tarrant!"

No response.

"Don't make me slap you, Tarrant Hightopp!"

He blinks.

"Look at me, you stubborn milliner!"

Another blink. A bit of a twitch, too. Alice reaches for his left hand and interlaces their fingers, turning their hands so that her heart line is in front of his face.

"Shush," she murmurs. "Look at me. I'm here..."

For a moment, it seems as if he'd heard her. And then: "_**ALICE!**_" His mindless, desperate cry rings out.

With a sigh, Alice gets up, throws the largest and most dangerous pieces of broken crockery onto the rug as well as her weapons and every other sharp object in the room with the exception of one. Gathering up the rug, she tosses it out into the hall. She considers dragging the mirror out as well, but as she'd rather confine the struggle to this room, leaves it. After all, it won't do for Tarrant go tearing after it and end up fighting her in the narrow corridor, where his strength and longer limbs would give him a definite advantage.

Decided, Alice says, "Mirana, I want you to go."

"But, Alice, he's gone _completely __**mad!**_"

"I can see that." Alice holds her broadsword in her hands and ties the scabbard securely to the hilt so that it can't possibly be unsheathed.

"What... are you going to do?"

Alice looks up and gives the queen what must be a predatory grin. Mirana looks a bit taken aback. "I'm going to fight as hard as I must... to win. I've a promise to keep."

Mirana's eyes widen in comprehension. "You might... Or rather, _he_ might... do you serious harm."

"He might," she agrees as Tarrant renews his struggles and screams. "And I might do _him_ serious harm. But, one way or another, we're going to sort this out _right __**now.**_" Alice Kingsleigh hadn't turned her back on her family and her home to let Tarrant Hightopp throw their future away to madness _now!_

Slowly, Mirana nods. "All right," she agrees. With one last desperate look back into the room, she exits and closes the door behind her.

"May I be excused now?" Chessur drawls.

"Yes, I'll take it from here."

And then Alice is alone... with a crimson-eyed, fever-mad hatter.

With Chessur no longer between him and the wall, Tarrant falls back against it and seems dazed by his sudden freedom. Alice takes a chance and approaches him. His irises are still red, but she doesn't try to hide from him. She waits for her movements to capture his attention, but that dazed look lingers. Laying her sheathed sword on the foot of the bed, Alice kneels down next to him. She slides her left hand into his hair at the back of his skull and asks, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

"I..."

Alice sees a flicker of coherence. Despite her reservations, she feels the tiniest spark of hope...

"I haven't...!" That's all he manages before he lunges for her.

"Botheration!" she grits out, grabbing his arm and, with a foot braced against the base of the bedpost, twists it behind his back. The hand not held securely between his shoulder blades scrabbles at the floor.

"_**ALICE!**_"

"I'm right here, Tarrant. Right here..." She presses against him, her shins across the backs of his thighs and her pelvis against his buttocks. "Remember? We fought like this before..."

He groans. "_**Alice...!**_"

_Hmm. A bit of an improvement,_ she thinks, hearing something other than desperation and panic in his voice. She leans down and, daringly, nuzzles through his hair to his ear. "Come back to me, Tarrant..."

His breaths lift her up and down over his back and shoulders. Alice begins to get impatient as the silence stretches. "Don't make me bite you, Hatter." Daring once more, she sets her teeth gently against his neck. He groans.

"Break?" she asks.

A heartbeat... and then another thumps in her chest and then – wherever Tarrant finds the leverage, Alice doesn't know! – she's tumbling off his back as he's rising from the floor, looming over her.

Feeling the first spike of alarm since his first blood-curdling cry, Alice reacts. She hooks her feet behind his knees, grabs the legs of the armchair for anchoring, and _pulls_. He crashes to his hands and knees but she's already scrambling away and gaining her feet. Before he manages to stand back up, she uses the bedpost to slingshot herself around and shove him back to the floor. He lands hard and she sits down on the small of his back this time. Catching his forearms in hers, she presses them down against the floor and hopes he tires himself out sooner rather than later or this really could become... painful.

"Are you all right?" she asks, struggling for a normal tone.

He doesn't reply. Tarrant merely rolls his head to the side and shudders.

"I came back," she tells him, trying a different strategy. "I _did _go through the looking glass. Do you know why?"

Nothing.

"I went to see my mother. She got the letter the day before yesterday about my ship. I went to see her while she was sleeping... to tell her good-bye. Do you know why I did that?" she asks softly, rubbing her thumbs back and forth over his jacket-covered arms. "I told her good-bye because I've chosen _you._ I'm staying."

Still, no response.

"Is that what you wanted? That I'd stay in Underland... with you?"

He drags in a breath that's much deeper than the others he'd been taking.

"Tarrant? Talk to me. What color do you think your eyes are now?"

"Alice...?"

Her eyes close in relief. Never has she been so happy to hear that whispered lisp. "Tarrant? Break?"

He shakes his head as he trembles with another shiver. "No'yet."

Alice complies. She stays right where she is and murmurs to him, "It's all right. I'm not leaving. I'm staying. It's all right. I'm keeping my promise."

Perhaps five minutes pass this way and then he takes one more deep breath. "I'm fine now," he tells her.

Still wary, Alice moves off of him as gently as possible. He doesn't move, though, so Alice circles around and, crouching down searches his expression. "Tarrant?"

His eyes flick briefly in her direction and she lets out a sigh of relief: his eyes are green. Finally. She holds out her hands to him. "Come on. Up you go."

After a moment, he extends one hand and she urges him to his feet. Gently she pushes him back a step until he sits down at the foot of the bed. Alice pushes the sword out of the way – What a relief that she hadn't had to use it to defend herself! – and lets out a great sigh. Sliding her arms around him, she prompts, "Tell me what's wrong. I'm here. I'm fine. You're fine..."

"No, I'm not fine." He gulps and stares at his hands where they rest, palms-up on his knees. "Monster," he croaks on a breath of sound. "You've seen... Couldn't stop myself... I could have... I _wanted _to..."

"What did you want?"

He closes his eyes. "No, no. I still... _still_..."

"All right, you still want to. What is it you want?"

His hands reach as if to grab her, but at the last possible moment, he turns them on himself. Grasping his jacket lapels, he twists them mercilessly. In a strangled voice, he confesses, "You. I must _keep _you, Alice. I will do anything, go anywhere, become anyone, but I _must keep __**you!**_"

Alice presses a hand against his cheek and the brief flash yellow-_orange-__**red**_ fades back to bewildered green. "If you keep me, then... that means I can keep you, too?"

The disbelief she sees in him hurts. But, really, what had she expected? She's never told him that she... that he...

When he absorbs her words, a brief flicker of delight crosses his face. "Aye..." he replies hesitantly.

She smiles and runs her fingers gently through his hair, trying to tame it. She wishes it were this easy to soothe his soul. She says, "So, I'll keep you and you'll keep me... agreed?"

Tarrant returns her smile now and leans his forehead against hers. He breathes deeply for a moment, his eyes closed. When he opens them, they're the most beautiful, rich, infinite blue she's ever seen. He murmurs, "If I'm not mistaken, that was iambic pentameter..."

Alice laughs. "It was, wasn't it?"

And finally, his arms come around her. Alice leans against his shoulder and, still smiling, sighs: everything is fine; everything is _finally_ as it _should _be.

* * *

[End of Chapter 12: Scene 1 of 4]


	35. Book 1, Promises Kept, 2 of 4

_**Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept **_[Scene 2 of 4]

"Why didn't you ever release the queen from her promise?"

Tarrant looks up from his tea. It's Saturday, again, and nearly brillig. The previous three days had been wonderful: better than he could have imagined! _(And that's really saying something!)_ For one thing, Alice had gone through the looking glass, she had looked at her old life, and she had bid it farewell! Tarrant had never expected – _although he'd hoped!_ – that she would choose him and it made every day that much sweeter.

Another thing that adds to Tarrant's joy is undiluted relief: he'd indeed faced his own personal demon and he _had not hurt Alice in the process!_ He'd feared that he might be capable of so many horrid, unforgivable things, but he hadn't done any of them. Alice hadn't let him. He'd like to think that he wouldn't have hurt her, regardless, but he's more than happy with how things had turned out, in the end.

And the third thing that makes Tarrant _extremely _happy is the fact that his heart line – he can only guess as to Alice's – crested over his shoulder sometime last night and is nearing the center of his chest. Very soon, it will be time to consider the third and final exchange. He tries not to think about it too much. Especially when Alice is asking him questions.

"I beg your pardon, Alice. My mind was galumphing about."

Alice smiles. "I can picture that quite vividly."

He giggles.

"I was wondering why you never released the queen from her promise... Not to bring me back into Underland?"

"Oh, well..." Tarrant studies the ends of his cravat for a moment.

"Yes?"

He looks up and into Alice's expectant expression which is much closer than he would have expected normally – she'd moved her chair closer to his today! They're nearly sitting side by side at the round table! Tarrant tries not to think of the fact that her knee is only a twitch away...

Clearing his throat, Tarrant offers her a proposition, "You have one question you'd like to have answered and I have two. Shall we trade?"

"Two answers for one? That's not fair," she protests, just as he'd hoped she would!

"A fair trade? You Uplanders have some odd ideas..."

Alice considers her response carefully. "All right, I'll give you your answers, but, _someday_, I might have another question for you and you'll answer it free of charge."

"I thought you didn't excel at business practices, Alice," he teases her.

"Going once... going twice..."

"Agreed! Now, for my questions!"

"Excuse me?"

He grins. "You didn't specify that I couldn't have your answers first!"

She arcs a brow. "Well, you can ask, I suppose. I won't promise to answer them yet!"

Thrilled, Tarrant quickly calms himself by repositioning his teacup on its saucer and then centering the saucer in front of him. "Ahem. Right. Yes. My first question: Alice..." he begins, suddenly somber. "Why didn't you tell me you were going back through the looking glass to say good-bye?"

Alice's smile fades and Tarrant nearly regrets asking the question in the first place. If it weren't for the fact that he needs to know the answer **very badly**, he would have withdrawn it.

After a moment, Alice tells him, "Perhaps I wasn't."

Tarrant blinks. "I beg your pardon?"

"I wasn't sure I _was _going back to say good-bye... I could have told my mother I'd been rescued during the storm... I _could have _gone back and stayed..."

Now, Tarrant regrets asking that question very much, indeed.

"But," Alice continues, "when I went through the looking glass, my first thought was that despite the familiarity, it wasn't anything like Mamoreal and... when I was telling my mother about this place and my friends and... you..."

At this point, Alice blushes so enchantingly that Tarrant retracts his desire to retract the original question.

"I realized I wanted to stay in Underland."

"With me, Alice?" he dares to clarify.

"Yes, with you."

Tarrant is beside himself with glee. He struggles to keep his seat – a bit of Futterwhacken might help alleviate his excess energy, but it would be rather rude to interrupt teatime with it! Impulsively, he collects Alice's hand and brushes a kiss over her knuckles. "I'm glad," he manages through his smile.

"Yes, I can see that."

Tarrant grins like the Cheshire Cat.

"And your other question?" Alice wonders, not reclaiming her hand.

Tarrant brushes his thumb over her knuckles. Studying Alice's smaller hand in his, their fingertips both callused and rough in certain places, their hands both scarred, he admits, "I nearly don't want to ask this one... but I must." After all, the response to his first question had turned out rather wonderfully and he'll be pressing his luck to hope for as much with the second.

Alice waits.

He draws in a deep breath and stutters, "Well, you see, during the first exchange... that is, in my workshop... but you've been to my workshop many times... yes, well, on this particular occasion your heart-line finger had been pricked and I was wondering..." Tarrant turns in his seat and clasps her single hand in both of his. Swallowing, he forces himself to ask, "I was wondering Alice, if... did _I_ prick your finger?"

She frowns. "You don't remember?"

"Not... no, not clearly."

Alice places her other hand on top of his. "It was a pin in your cuff. It was an accident. Providence."

And just that easily, the remaining shadows scatter.

Slumping slightly, Tarrant releases the breath he'd been holding. "Oh..."

Alice raises a brow. "And _now_ will you answer my question?"

"Oh, oh, yes. Of course..." Tarrant glances away, frowning. _How to make this sound less than horridly, unforgivably slurvish?_

"You didn't want me to come back?" Alice asks suddenly.

Tarrant lifts his gaze, shocked, appalled! _How could Alice think...?_

"_**No!**_" He gentles his voice. "No... I was... trying to say this in a way that might not make you think... _too_ poorly of me..."

"Tarrant?"

He winces. "I _did _want you to return. _Desperately._" _Oh, what will Alice think when she hears his answer?_ Tarrant closes his eyes and just _says _it: "I wanted you to come back to _me._ Not to, for, because of, due to, as a result of... anyone else." The last part is said in a shamed whisper.

When he feels Alice's hands gently pull from his grasp, he lets them go. A moment later, he startles when Alice gently grasps his wrists and pulls his arms wide and then – once again! – slides into his lap. She wraps his arms around her waist and frames his face between her palms.

Amazed, he can only watch and listen.

"When I was apprenticing with the trading company, I imagined, every day that I'd go somewhere exotic and amazing. And then, when I got there, I looked for you. I looked in each and every face for... something that would remind me of you. I thought of you every day. Sometimes it seemed like every hour. By the time we sailed for England, I had a plan: to go back down that rabbit hole and find you." Alice searches his face. "_I_ _was coming back to_ _**you**__._" Tarrant feels a tentative smile stretch his lips. Alice's expression softens, "I went through the looking glass, said my good-byes and then I came back to _you._ You're not a bad person for wanting that," she tells him. Then, a mischievous light enters her eyes and she shrugs. "You might be a bit... _mad_..."

"Bonkers?" he asks, hopefully.

"Off your head," she confirms. "But you know something?"

Tarrant waits, entranced. Alice doesn't disappoint him.

Leaning close, she confides, "I _still_ think all the best people are."

And then she kisses him.

* * *

[End of Chapter 12: Scene 2 of 4]


	36. Book 1, Promises Kept, 3 of 4

_**Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept **_[Scene 3 of 4]

"Are you sure you don't want a ceremony?" Mirana asks for, perhaps, the tenth time that morning.

Alice shakes her head. "No ceremony, Your Majesty."

"Oh, botheration," the queen huffs. But, luckily, she doesn't seem capable of holding onto a grudge. "I am _so _happy for the both of you, Alice!"

"Me, too," Alice admits, perhaps a bit too smugly. In fact, she's been feeling rather smug all morning: ever since she'd woken up and, upon bathing, had noticed the twining blue lines that had grown up her arm and over her shoulder were now converged to a point over her heart: she is ready for the third exchange.

Alice had gone out of her way to inform Tarrant of this before breakfast, pushing him gently against a wall in an empty corridor and, with a single finger, tracing the lines of red – concealed beneath his jacket, waistcoat, and shirtsleeves – to the point above his heart: the _precise _location where her own bright blue heart line had stopped.

"Alice...? Yours also...? Is it...?"

"At your convenience," she'd reminded him. And then, with a teasing smirk: "Mr. Hightopp."

Alice has been kissed in corridors before, but never quite so... thoroughly. At least none of the latches, keyholes, or doorknobs had complained this time... Which is just as well as she's not sure either Tarrant or herself would have heard them.

She lets her eyes drift closed as she remembers those breathless kisses, his hands on her waist and then under her vest – so warm against her back! The embrace could have gone on all day (and likely would have!) if not for Tarrant finding some heretofore unrevealed shred of restraint. (Of all the rotten timing!)

"No, not... not... Now is not the time..." He'd breathed against her neck. His teeth had nipped her gently, making her shiver. Alice hadn't particularly agreed with his assessment of their schedules, but as she'd promised, this would be at _his _convenience, so she'd kept her mouth shut... somehow.

He'd pulled back, his then-violet eyes sparkling, and had asked with flawless decorum, "Are you free for dinner this evening, Alice?"

Oh, yes, she is _absolutely _free for dinner. And Fate help anyone who tries to change those plans!

"Ahem? Alice?"

Alice's eyes pop open. "Oh, what? Sorry?"

Mirana smirks. "You're going to be utterly useless today, aren't you?"

"Probably, but at least I'll be useless with a smile!"

The queen raises a brow. "I sincerely hope your Hatter doesn't run a needle through his finger..."

Alice wishes she could say (with confidence) that a sewing accident isn't a distinct probability, but...

Yes, precisely: _But..._

Alice actually has a rather busy day, alternating between dreamy, distant smiles and sudden, worried frowns. And, then, on top of that, she's supposed to be thinking about the queen's travel itinerary!

"Shuchland?" Alice asks, noticing the fact that the writing on the parchment in her hands had been intended for _reading._ "Are we visiting whom I _think _we're visiting?" Alice inquires with a knowing grin.

"Oh, turn that smile off. It's like having Chessur in the room with us!"

"My apologies, Your Majesty."

Mirana giggles. "And to answer your question... Is it not only polite to accept an invitation in return for offering one?"

"Of course," Alice says. "So how's Dale these days?"

And Alice is _highly_ entertained by the fact that the queen _can _blush rather well... in certain circumstances. They'd gone over the security details for transporting all of the ridiculous luggage Fenruffle had declared necessary according to his logistics forecast report. They'd also discussed appropriate gifts for their host and his parents. And, upon learning that Dale's grandfather had, in fact, been a gypsy king from an clan of Outlanders similar to Tarrant's, Alice considers lions... and Outlanders... and _marriage... and __**children**__..._ and finally thinks to ask the most basic of _all_ questions:

"Would Tarrant and I be able to have children, do you think?" she blurts out over the rim of her teacup.

Mirana, in mid-sip, coughs a bit, then sputters a bit more, and – eyes watering – replies, "I think you'll come to find that there's a rite for nearly _everything _in Underland."

_And so there is!_ Alice thinks, later that afternoon. She skims the passages the queen had recommended – again, blushing – just to be _sure_ that she and Tarrant aren't going to stumble onto another one of those spur-of-the-moment-rituals-that-is-actually-an-ancient-rite! Well, at least, not until they're quite ready for that sort of thing!

_I suppose I ought to ask Tarrant about his opinion on the matter..._ She snorts as she imagines _that_ topic smoothly introduced over dinner tonight:

_"And so I was reading books on childbearing rites between partners of different origins – Mirana's recommendation, of course – and I realized I'd never asked you what your thoughts were on starting a family!"_

Alice is quite sure Tarrant's expression would be positively _priceless._ However, as she's not all that sure as to which answer she'd rather hear, she'll just save that bit of small talk for later.

_After all, there's no reason to complicate a perfectly lovely third exchange with thoughts of the future._

On her way up to her room – to get ready for dinner... _finally!_ – Alice almost trips over Mirana. _I __**must**_ _make more an effort to watch where I'm going!_

"Can I interest you in a gown for this evening?"

"I—what?"

"A dress, Alice. I remembered that you've only ever had trousers and such tailored. Now, if I'd had a bit more _time_ I might have been able to commission a truly _lovely _gown for you, but as that's not possible, _apparently_..."

Alice laughs. "Don't be tetchy with me! And besides, my usual vest and trousers will be just fine."

"Well, yes, but..."

"But?"

Mirana leans in and, with a wicked grin, speculates, "Unless things become rather... _urgent_. Your seams might not survive. _How _long have you both been waiting for this?"

"Ah, good point..."

Sensing victory, the queen ushers Alice over to her bed where Mirana had already laid out several options. "What do you think of these?"

With a slight shake of her head, Alice picks the most comfortable garment and hopes she won't have to explain to Mirana why a corset and stockings will _not _be necessary.

* * *

[End of Chapter 12: Scene 3 of 4]


	37. Book 1, Promises Kept, 4 of 4

**Warning: This entry contains sexual content. [NON-explicit]**

Note: If you are OF AGE and feel that this chapter doesn't "live up to" the overall story rating [M], then please see my homepage for the unabridged version of Chapter Twelve... which is most **definitely **rated [M]! (I tend to rate my own work a bit strictly, just to be on the safe side.)

* * *

_**Chapter Twelve: Promises Kept **_[Scene 4 of 4]

This isn't the first time he's seen Alice wearing a dress. No, of course not. Why, she'd even worn a dress _he'd_ made _just_ for her. (Although, if he'd had more time and a selection of fabrics and a bit of trimming it might have turned out considerably better...) Despite that, Tarrant can't help thinking that he's never really _noticed _Alice wearing a dress before. Tarrant hadn't realized he could surpass himself in his skills in _noticing Alice._ He'd rather thought himself the expert at it. Until now.

"... never mentioned it before?"

Tarrant blinks, gives himself a brief shake, and realizes Alice had just asked him a question.

"I'm sorry, Alice. What was that?"

He sits, with his knife and fork still in hand – still gleaming! – and his untouched plate cooling in front of him. The scent of the dinner he'd ejected Thackery from the kitchen in order to prepare holds no appeal for him. From the moment Alice had arrived this evening, he'd been able to do little else than simply _notice _her.

_And, oh what there is to be __**noticed!**_

The gown she's wearing is a deep blue and it seems vaguely familiar, reminding him of a moonlit masquerade and music drifting on the summer breeze long ago... Alice is even lovelier wrapped up in that blue, but it's her shoulders – _irresistible!_ – that keep him riveted, for they are completely and utterly _bare._ Tarrant manages an awkward swallow as Alice reaches for her water glass and takes a sip. Her short hair curls gently at the nape of her neck and he helplessly follows the slope of it down to her collarbone and the tiny hollow at its center. And there, just to the side, he sees the end of her heart line, poised like the trail of a lover's signature from his quill, over the curve of her breast. The plunging neckline and the insignificant scraps of fabric wrapping around her upper arms in a mockery of sleeves reveals the graceful, unchangeable, unmistakable evidence that she is completely, absolutely, irrevocably _his Alice!_

As she lowers the crystal stemware, Tarrant notices the shimmering of his silverware in his hands. Trembling, again. Alice's hand is not very steady, either, he notes as the water sloshes a bit.

"I was saying," she says, reclaiming her fork in her hand. Tarrant stares – defeated and distracted – at her pale fingers as they wrap around the utensil. "That you never told me you were so skilled in the kitchen. Why didn't you mention it?"

Tarrant opens his mouth to reply, but – meeting Alice's gaze – finds he has to clear his throat before any sound will emerge. "I haven't the slightest idea," he says, replying only to the question directly rather than the inquiry behind it.

Alice smiles and glances down at her plate, which is noticeably emptier than Tarrant's. (Oh, he'd hoped she would like it!) He has yet to give a thought to his own meal and with a vision like the one opposite him, he feels no inclination whatsoever to redirect his attention.

Tonight, her skin seems so soft and warm and he knows how her hair smells – he'd sampled its scent as he'd pushed her chair in for her! – and, if he'd had but a moment more, he might have been able to measure the visible curve of her back...

The **invitation **Alice is wearing _teases, tortures, torments...!_

The knife and fork quiver again, reflecting the candlelight.

_Touch me..._ the dress seems to whisper.

He clutches his silverware tighter.

As Alice lifts another morsel to her mouth, as Tarrant watches it disappear between her lips, he squeezes his eyes shut briefly and promises himself that he will _never as long as he lives __**invite Alice to a private dinner again!**_

Yes, this is an unmitigated disaster: he can't concentrate on anything but that expanse of lovely, marked – _his mark! _– skin. He can't speak for the _ache _that has conquered every part of him. He can't release his knife and fork, not even to remove the perfectly clean napkin from his lap, for fear a desperate, overwhelming, _fevered_ madness will possess him. And _then _what would stop him from touching, _tasting, __**taking**_ everything he desires?

There's a soft clatter as Alice lays her fork down. Unable to resist just one more glance, he opens his eyes.

"I have a proposal," she offers tentatively.

"Ah...?" At least his nod is coherent, he muses darkly.

"Tonight, let's bow to the logic of Underland and have dinner... afterward."

If Tarrant had kept a clock in his parlor, he's sure the sound of its ticking and tocking would have been exceptionally noticeable. _Almost as magnificently noticeable as Alice!_ He stares, comprehending her words but fearing to understand completely, quite obviously tongue-tied. (He's sure he'll be highly embarrassed about it later, but he simply doesn't have the resources to dwell on it at the moment.)

Alice stands, the fabric of her dress brushing against her chair and the edge of the table cloth. He can only watch as she rounds the table and approaches him. When she's so close he can feel the heat of her arms across his, when her fingers gently grasp his own knife and fork, intending to lift them from his hands, he panics.

"Alice, I..."

Those delightful fingers pause just an instant away from touching his own. "Have you changed your mind?" she asks calmly.

_Calm._ Yes, calm is good, he tells himself. Draws a steadying breath, only to have Alice's scent kick the world upside-down.

"Too much," he tells her, not even considering the possibility that she might not understand. There are no words that can describe his desire. He's waited for this moment _all his life_. Ever since that moment when the White Queen had asked his Fa about the heart line... In that moment, Tarrant had realized what a heart line _truly meant._ And it had not been until well after the deaths of his family, friends, and fellow hatters – when he'd realized that he'd _lost _this miracle _for all time_ – that he'd felt his heart shatter from desolation and loneliness.

_And here Alice is __**offering it to him before the conclusion of dinner!**_

He shouldn't let her take the silverware from his hands, but he watches as they're laid down upon the table. He shouldn't let her remove the napkin from his thigh, but that also is set aside. He shouldn't let her take his hands and urge him up and toward the bedroom.

_Oh, how he __**shouldn't!**_

But moments later, he's there, standing beside his bed and Alice's hands are working at his cravat.

"This is your new suit, isn't it?" she asks. "The one you wore to the banquet after each duel?"

_Duel... _He shivers at the thought, his mind struggling to form coherent thought. Is this another of Alice's duels? In a way, he hopes it is. He wants her to... well, not fight him perhaps... but he wants her to seek her own pleasure, her own victory tonight as well. Tarrant would give her anything she desires, if only he could be sure the madness would allow it of him.

His cravat is folded and placed on the side table. His cuff links follow. He feels a spike of mind-blanking panic-lust-_want-__**need-MUST-HAVE!**_ as her fingers unbuckle his belt. He fists his hands and clenches his jaw.

The buttons of his waistcoat surrender to her and then the jacket and vest are laid across a conveniently placed chair. Alice places her hands on his arms and guides him back a step to the bed. He sits, dazed, as she pulls off his boots and socks.

"All right?" she whispers.

His fingers curl into the bedding like desperate claws. Tarrant's entire body is tense, wound, coiled. He manages a nod with difficulty.

She holds his gaze for a moment, cradling his face in her palms, before she smiles softly and turns. "Would you?" she asks over her shoulder.

Tarrant stares at the line of buttons clinging to the curve of her spine. He's not sure how long he simply _looks _at those mocking little closures, but Alice doesn't pull away as he takes one calming breath after another. Finally, when his hands are hands once again rather than frantic claws, his fingers touch the first button and gently urge it back through the button hole.

With the first undone, he pauses, evaluates himself, and determines he might try another... With each button he hesitates, waits for the madness to take him, but nothing of the sort happens. Finally, when there are no more buttons to undo and the sheer fabric of Alice's chemise is revealed, Alice takes one step away and the dress slides off. She places it beside his jacket and vest on the chair, steps out of her slippers, and pulls something from this left jacket lapel.

Feeling as if he might break into thousands of tiny pieces at the slightest provocation, Tarrant returns his hands to the bedclothes and clutches them in his grasp.

Taking a seat next to him, lovely in only her underthings – the delicate chemise that is far, far too thin for his peace of mind and a layer of petticoats – Alice turns toward him.

"Are you ready?" she asks.

He notes that she doesn't ask him if he's _sure._ _There is nothing he is __**more**_ _sure of!_ She asks if he's _ready._ He closes his eyes briefly and prays that the madness will not make an appearance tonight. Tarrant nods and forces himself to look at her.

For a moment, he stares at the fabric pin in her right hand. When he accepts it, their fingers brush and the touch settles him in an unanticipated way. When Alice offers him her heart-line finger, he holds it steady with his hand, leans down to brush a kiss over her palm and then, meeting her gaze, applies the pin... for the last time.

Her breath hitches as the point breaks the skin, but she doesn't flinch. Tarrant waits a moment, long enough for the bead of blood to swell, and then guides her fingertip to his mouth. He can't help closing his eyes to savor the third and final experience with her blood. His tongue slides over her skin once, twice. The arm in his grasp shivers. With pleasure, he hopes. The first of innumerable to come...

Opening his eyes, Tarrant feels heat and urgency run riot within him at her dazed expression, her parted lips. Releasing her hand, he offers the pin to her as well as his left hand. Alice is as silent as he had been: she holds his hand aloft, positions the pin, meets his gaze, and pushes it home.

_Home._

Aye, he and Alice have that now. Together.

He feels slightly dizzy – giddy! – watching her eyelashes flutter closed, her mouth open and his fingertip disappear within it. The touch of her tongue makes his entire being twitch and the gentle suction she applies makes him tear at the quilt with his free hand.

"_Alice..._"

With _aching _slowness, she withdraws his heart-line finger, opens her eyes and says, "Yes."

That's all he needs to hear.

The passionate kiss and the desperate embrace that follow are tender in their purity, their honesty. Tarrant holds nothing back from her and is rewarded by the sound of his name, gasped so breathlessly, in Alice's voice. For this voice, this woman, Tarrant will do anything. Be anyone. Tonight, he is her lover.

These moments belong to them completely for Time is left outside the door of the room. There is only _now_ and _please_ and _give-take-MINE-YOURS-US-ONE!_  
_  
Alice is HIS now!_

Every thought reduces to that one truth.

He concedes to her and she reaches for her own victory. Reaches for it, discovers it, and reveals the way to Tarrant. In the end, he realizes, in _this_ bed _together_, pleasure and victory are indistinguishable from each other.

And there is no room for the madness he so fears here!

Shaking and spent, Tarrant studies her closed eyes, the burgeoning smile on her lips – like no other smile he's ever seen in her features. Her hands drop away from him as every muscle in her body relaxes. Tarrant regards his Alice with reverence. He reaches out and smoothes a few wayward strands of hair – she'll need a haircut again before the next duel, whenever it comes! – away from her eyes, which she opens slowly.

"Mmmm," she says, and re-wraps her arms around his neck. "Are you all right?"

_Is he all –?_

Tarrant leans down and kisses her soundly. "Aye. You? Did I hurt you?"

Beneath him, she stretches luxuriously. "It was _lovely_..."

He notices that she hadn't answered his question but, nevertheless, she appears to be _quite_... satisfied. Gently, and a bit shakily, he sinks down onto the bed beside her, gathers her into his arms and presses his nose into her hair. On his chest, her fingers trace patterns over his heart.

"It's revealing," she whispers and Tarrant looks down to see the emergence of rosy lines, curling and twining in a four-pointed, unending knot.

"We're bound, now. In heart, by blood." His fingers trail over her shoulder and down her arm.

She sighs. "So it's finished, then?"

Tarrant smiles gently. His Champion, always concerned with her duties. "Nae," he whispers, taking her hand in his and lacing their fingers together. "'Tis only jus' beginnin'."

* * *

[End of Chapter 12]

**Note: The _Epilogue_ will be posted next, so this story is not _quite_ finished yet...**


	38. Book 1, Epilogue

**__****Epilogue ****[Scene 1 of 1]**

**"Have we forgotten anything?" Fenruffle demands of the harried frogs and fish.**

"I certainly _hope so,_" Alice grumbles, eyeing the pile of luggage and pitying the low-ranking pawns-turned-pack mules.

At her side, Mirana just smiles serenely. "There's no use in protesting. Just let Fenruffle prepare whatever he thinks will be necessary. Otherwise he'll give himself a stress-injury."

Alice sighs. She knows it's the gryphon's job to ensure that the queen's household – no matter where that might be – runs smoothly, guaranteeing her comfort. Mirana's safety, however, is a responsibility that falls to Alice and, as such, where the White Queen goes, so does Alice.

She resists scanning the drive for her Hatter. They've already said their good-byes (and rather spectacularly, too!) and she won't be gone long. Only sixteen days.

_**SIXTEEN DAYS!**_

Alice winces at the internal scream of desperation. Since her return to Underland, she's hasn't once been away from him for so long.

_This is going to be very... trying._

Despite the month of bliss that had followed the finalization of the Thrice a-Vow, Alice can't help but wish for more time. Just one more lazy, warm afternoon... Just one more moonlit night... Just one more rosy-hued morning...

Alice has to admit: it's just as well she and Tarrant aren't of the same species or she might have to have a bit of... _small talk_ with him. Or possibly nominate someone else to protect the queen in her stead for the next year or so... But they'd stayed away from bringing any other rites into the bedroom, so...

_Nothing to worry about,_ Alice tells herself.

Nothing... except sixteen days without his touch, his infectious giggle, his ever-changing eyes: teasing emerald, affectionate blue, impassioned violet.

She shivers despite the warm morning.

_Right – stop this, Alice! You are __**working!**_

After another furious roll call of the prepared and packed supplies, the pawns move forward, gathering the trunks and cases. In that moment of activity – as the queen moves toward her mount – Alice glimpses a flash of dark color. She doesn't tense when a hand grasps her arm and pulls her behind the cherry tree she'd been standing beneath.

She doesn't reach for her knife as she stumbles against a warm body. Tarrant leans back against the tree, pulls her against him, and kisses her. Alice lets herself forget about the preparations on the castle drive, the time, the travel itinerary...

His arms are almost bruisingly tight around her. Her hands clutch his vibrant hair with abandon. Their mouths seek, devour...

_Let this moment never end... Let Time and the queen and Underland leave us here..._

Bit by bit, the kiss gentles to soft touches and sighs. Tarrant's arms loosen as do her fingers. When his hands are resting on her hips and hers on his shoulders, Tarrant leans his forehead against hers and smiles.

"Ye f'rgot yer Pain Paste," he whispers.

"And what did you forget?" she asks knowingly.

He giggles. And then: "Alice," he sighs contentedly, "Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

Alice closes her eyes and inhales the scents clinging to his jacket. She whispers, "I don't know, Hatter. Why _is _a raven like a writing desk?"

His voice is husky and low, his breath a caress against her ear. "I haven't the slightest idea..."

Alice's entire being suffuses with warmth. Tarrant's warmth, his concern, his _love._ As declarations of love go, perhaps it's unconventional, but then, so are they. Unconventional, but in complete accord.

Leaning away, she grasps his left hand with hers and raises them up so she can see his dark red heart line twisting, twining over his pale skin, so he can see her equally dark blue one.

"Be back before you know it," she tells him.

His eyes, awash with so many colors she can barely discern them all, focus on hers and he waits.

Relenting, Alice gives him what he seeks, what he _needs:_ "I promise."

A long breath escapes him. His eyes nearly close and his lips find hers again. _This _kiss is their farewell, sweet and sad and so sensual she would give anything for one more afternoon, evening, morning spent in bed together...

And then he gently straightens both of them away from the tree and, retrieving something from his jacket pocket, offers it to her on the palm of his hand. Alice chuckles and reaches for the container of healing ointment.

"When ye ge'back, I'll be checkin' teh be sure 'twasn' needful," he warns her.

"Then I'd better not get in any fights."

Tarrant smiles and gently combs his bruised, bandaged, be-thimbled fingers through her once-again-shorter hair.

Letting go of his hand – separating their heart lines – and walking away from him seems like the hardest thing she's ever done. She can remember doing nothing so utterly _contrary _to her nature. But she does it: she lets him go; she returns to the procession waiting in drive; she mounts the Bandersnatch.

"Shall we be off?" Mirana asks cheerfully.

"Yes, let's," Alice replies, tucking the jar into her bag.

_It's only sixteen days, _she thinks.

_"Be back before you know it!"_

And because she _has to _believe in that promise, Alice doesn't look back... even though she knows he's standing beneath the boughs of the cherry tree, watching, once again waiting for the moment when _his_ Alice will arrive.

_*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*_

**Note****: **Is this the **end? **Well,** no. **I'll start posting the sequel when I've tweaked it into submission. Again, an M-rated version (with non-explicit sexual content) will be available here on FFnet while** the unabridged version **will be available on my homepage.** Thank you **for reading and a **GREAT BIG PRE-THANK YOU for reviewing and sharing your thoughts with me! **Until next time...


	39. Book 2, The Nightmare and the Dream, 1

_The following is a work of fan fiction. NO profit or compensation was provided in exchange. NO copyright infringement is intended._

_**One Promise Kept: Book 2**_  
a fan fiction by Manniness  
_Alice in Wonderland (2010 film version)_

**Summary:** Queen Mirana and her Champion expect it to be a short trip abroad. And, in all fairness it is. Finding their way home to Mamoreal, however, is the hard part.

**Rated: M** for Violence, Character Death, Sexual Situations (non-explicit), Mature Language, Angst

**Status:** Finished! [Will be available on my homepage shortly – please see my bio for the link, but PLEASE NOTE THE RATING and WARNINGS! The version I will post here will be rated M, in compliance with this site's policies.]

**__****

* * *

**

Chapter One: The Nightmare and the Dream [Scene 1 of 2]

Despite his familiarity with this particular ceremonial duty, it never gets any easier for Tarrant Hightopp, the White Queen's Royal Hatter, to watch the Queen's Champion fight in a duel. Every bloody time, the wretched, fearsome heartache he's never been able to conquer catches up to him... even if he escapes up one of the ever-blossoming cherry trees surrounding the battleground. In the boughs of a tree, at the forefront of the assembled crowd... it makes no difference. Every bloody, wretched, torturous time, Tarrant Hightopp has to grapple with his panic and nausea and _don't-you-dare-touch-her-__you-_**__****vile-excuse-for-a-man-beast-creature!********Rage****.**

Understandably, in the moments preceding one of these duels, Tarrant Hightopp is often asked about his health, and usually by one of the queen's nosy, gossip-seeking courtiers. On those occasions, Tarrant confesses (with perfectly false embarrassment) to a violent stomach ache and acute bowel distress. That is often more than sufficient to ensure that the source of the unwanted attention relocates his or herself a satisfactory distance away... and up-wind.

Of course he _knows_ the Queen's Champion is an excellent fighter, a superb duelist, and formidable opponent. He's fought her himself, after all! Had even been one of those fortunate enough to tutor her. He'd taught her everything he knows, as insufficient as that had been. And she's surpassed him most gratifyingly. Normally, these assurances would be more than enough to dissuade his persistent heartache from trailing after him like a certain Cheshire Cat after his top hat. However, blessed objectivity is difficult to come by when the Queen's Champion also happens to be the woman who holds Tarrant Hightopp's very heart in her callused, scarred, pale, utterly _delightful_ hands.

"Challenger! Queen's Champion! Choose your weapon!"

Tarrant ignores Nivens as he hops out of the way. In fact, he makes it a point to ignore Nivens completely. The pre-duel speech holds no interest for him and never has.

He watches as Alice unsheathes her sword – still too short to be called a proper broadsword. If only she were just a _bit _taller and of longer limb, _then_ she'd fit a proper-sized weapon! But, as the queen has told him time and time again, it's _cheating _to smuggle a crumb or two of Uplekuchen into Alice's morning slice of Battenburg... and, besides, it's entirely possible Alice would notice the change and, therefore, his trickery... well-meaning though it would most certainly be...

Alice tosses her sword's empty scabbard aside. It lands at Nivens' feet and the rabbit twitches with surprise. Tarrant glowers. After all the times Alice has discarded un-needful scabbards in such a way, the white rabbit _ought _to be used to it!

However, Tarrant sets that thought aside and keeps his gaze trained on his blood-bonded lover as she takes her first step toward her opponent. Tarrant doesn't pay any attention to the booly-geber. They're all the same, except when they know nothing of dueling and their foolish inexperience risks her life! Or when their tendency toward pride or cruelty turns them into the most abhorrent sort of cowardly cheat imaginable! He's stood back and watched – helplessly! – as she's faced _all _types of challengers.

Glancing briefly at the queen, Tarrant decides, _I shall have to have a discussion with __**Her Majesty**_ _about choosing a husband and putting an end to this business once and for all!_

If the woman insists on a-gyring and a-gimbling over this for much longer, he shalln't be held responsible for his actions! Visions of pea-soup green beanies and violently pink bonnets dance through his thoughts. Badly-colored and horridly-styled hats may not be much of a revenge, but, as a hatter, his options are a trifle... limited.

The first clash of metal brings his attention back to whom ought to be the recipient of it. He watches the Champion – _his Alice! _– sidestep a cutting swing and, with the broad side of her weapon, tap her opponent teasingly on his exposed flank. Tarrant grits his teeth. It never ceases to frustrate him that she allows these pompous twits so many chances to run her through! Does she _have to __**play with them?**_ What sort of queen asks her Champion to put herself in such situations over and over and _over and over and __**over and over...!**_

_**CRASH!**_

Tarrant startles and blinks. Instantly, his rage – righteous though it most assuredly is! – dissipates and Worry, Concern, and Terror take its place. (It's a bit of tight fit, but they all manage it somehow...)

He watches as Alice dodges a particularly vicious and well-aimed thrust and rolls under her opponent's arm.

"_No, you thoughtless lass! Keep your feet!_"

She doesn't hear him. She never does. Which is just as well...

_Alice is working now. Protecting the queen. Mustn't interfere..._

Helpless, hopeless despair defeats him and Tarrant can only watch as Alice counters a chop, blocks a lunge, executes a few advances of her own, then, as if by mutual agreement, she and the other combatant pause, lower their swords slightly, and begin circling each other once again.

Twenty minutes. Tarrant counts them. Twenty minutes of meaningless posturing and posing until Alice will be permitted to tear that hateful blade from her opponent's grasp and claim victory for the queen.

He's never hated Time more than he does now.

Alice meets the opposing sword again, more furiously than before. The sound of metal striking metal occurs too rapidly for Tarrant to flinch in time with it. He forces his eyes to keep from blinking, forces himself to keep watching. As long as he's watching, nothing bad – nothing _very _bad – will happen to his Alice. He'd kept his eyes open during the Battle of Frabjous Day – and a good thing, too! or she might've been gravely injured by that then-horrible Jabberwock! He'd kept his eyes open when that pathetic, groping, disgusting _wastrel_ had _touched __**his **__Alice_ in places that only _Tarrant is permitted access to!_ But he'd kept his eyes open and had been able to direct her to her lost weapon forthwith once she'd struggled loose from that... that... _**villain's**_ grasp. In fact, the _only _time Tarrant hadn't kept his eyes open, Alice had killed someone: Stayne. Alice had killed Ilosovich Stayne and the resulting guilt – which, in Tarrant's opinion she should not have felt _at all!_ – had nearly destroyed her, had very nearly pushed her back through the looking glass and into a life far and away from him!

Yes, Tarrant _must_ keep his eyes on her!

Her opponent is taller than her, stronger than her, and wields his broadsword with frightening skill. Again and again, Alice must raise her weapon to counter his slashing attacks. Tarrant fears he sees her arms shaking with fatigue.

_Has it not been twenty minutes __**yet?**_

He dares to glance toward Nivens, toward the queen's seat, but there is no white rabbit there. Not silver bell on its raised podium. In fact, the soft, green grass of the croquet pitch at Mamoreal is nowhere to be seen, either! The checkered battlefield, with its cracked and weathered stones and clumps of scraggly weeds growing in obnoxious tufts meets his increasingly-panicked gaze.

Tarrant turns to the left and right, searching for the courtiers, Alice's current tutors, the required contingent of the Queen's Guard... but only the wind keeps Tarrant company on this desolate plain.

_**CRASH!**_

He whips back around, horrified by the fact that _his Alice is still __**fighting!**_

Tarrant casts about for a silver bell – or _any _bell, for that matter! Perhaps he has something in his pockets! Perhaps he can fashion one from a thimble and a metal button! He struggles frantically with his pockets which suddenly seem much too small for his fingers to investigate and swears under his breath in Outlandish. He uses words he's never said in Alice's presence before, but he doesn't care!

_Without a bell the __**fight will not end until someone DIES!**_

Tarrant _fears._ He fears for Alice. For, even if _she_ does not die, if she _kills_ again, she will once again consider leaving him, fleeing Underland and her most disturbing memories through the mirror! Tarrant is not sure if he will be able to stop her this time...

And then... _there!_ His fingers manage to gain entrance to his waistcoat pocket – his pocket watch pocket – and Tarrant pulls out a small, silver bell. He waves it in the air and – _thank you Fates of Underland!_ – its clear, pure tone peals, echoes across the wasteland.

_**Relief!**_

Pure, blessed relief floods him. Alice will finish the fight, soon. Soon, she will turn to him and he will put his hands – bandaged and be-thimbled – against her cheeks and lean his forehead – still creased with deep frown lines – against hers and she will smile and say his name as she holds onto him and he will _know _that she is _safe_ and that she has _kept her promise!_

And so, the silver bell rings.

And Alice drops her arm.

"_No, NO, __**NO!**_" Tarrant lunges for her, arms and hands reaching. He'll save her, just as he had before! There's no mirror between them this time! Nothing to slow him down!

And yet, he is not fast enough.

In the next instant, her opponent's broadsword thrusts through the air and finds its mark: Alice.

Tarrant doesn't understand what he sees: Alice, slumped over a the hilt of a sword, her crimson blood gushing in great rivulets from the tip of the blade that emerges from her back, her mouth open and blood dripping from her lips.

"_**NONONONONO!**_"

He reaches her, takes her in his arms, screams her name, _forbids her from __**leaving HIM!**_ But she does not look at him. She does not smile at him. She does not press her palm against his cheek to reassure him. She does nothing at all.

She is... _His __**Alice IS...!**_

He feels it then: the madness. It comes to him as it had that Horvendush Day when he'd stood in the center of his clan's village and surveyed the utter... _ruin_.

The madness comes and he _welcomes it!_

_Let this rage be the last thing this vile, repugnant excuse for an Underlander sees, __**knows, FEARS!**_

Still holding Alice in his arms, Tarrant lifts his gaze and looks upon his Alice's opponent, her _slayer_. He looks and...

... and...

... and the madness envelops him.

It comes simply, completely, utterly. It comes not in response to his call for it, but in response to the face he sees looming over the woman lying – dead, lifeless, _lost!_ – in his arms. It comes because the face Tarrant sees – the face of his wife's killer – is one he _**knows!**_

The face of the man who has slain his Alice...

... _is __**his OWN!**_

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 1]


	40. Book 2, The Nightmare and the Dream, 2

**__****Chapter One: The Nightmare and the Dream** [Scene 2 of 2]

Gasping, clawing, screaming, Tarrant erupts from sleep. He turns toward the empty side of the bed, scans the room, lifts the blankets, overturns the pillows, leans over the edge of the mattress – nearly tumbling head-first to the cold, stone floor – and checks under the bed.

No Alice.

He scrambles from the bed, slams out of the apartment, _runs_ down the corridors, nearly _falls down _the stairs, and keeps running. In her old bedroom, long unused: no Alice. In his workshop: no Alice. On the croquet pitch: no Alice. The sound of voices lures him toward the kitchen.

The door bangs open, startling the room's occupants. He studies each of them – twice, to be sure! – but...

No Alice.

"HATTER!"

He blinks.

"It's _all right!_"

At the center of the long, wooden table, Mallymkun holds a soup spoon poised beside a pitcher of cream, as if she plans to smack it in his direction like a croquet ball.

He hears desperate pants and, a moment later, realizes they're his own breaths. He closes his eyes for the briefest time, clears his throat, and asks in a tone that's _nearly _calm, "Where... is Alice?"

Thackery cackles and hides under the bench. Mally brandishes the soup spoon warily. It's the voice of an invisible cat that answers his question.

"Your dear Alice is fine. She's in Shuchland with the queen. Today is the eighth day. She'll be back on the evening of the sixteenth."

Tarrant twitches at the reminder. "Chess?"

"Yes, I'm here." The cat appears in the air beside him, holding a dark garment. "And you're here and Alice will be here in eight days. Although, in the meantime, perhaps you'd consent to wearing a robe?"

He glances down at himself and realizes he'd charged out of bed wearing only his pajama trousers – the ones Alice had asked the Royal Seamstress to make for him after he'd audibly admired hers. He feels his face heat and accepts the robe, tying the belt _very _securely around his waist. From under the kitchen table, a pair of slippers tumble out into the open, courtesy of Thackery. Tarrant steps into them and collapses onto the bench seat at the table, his head in his hands.

"Another nightmare?" Mally asks, finally putting down the spoon.

He nods.

"Was this one... any different from...?"

He shakes his head. No, this dream had been exactly the same as all the others: the duel in the croquet pitch with the unnoticed challenger, the disappearance of the audience, the grass, the silver bell... and then, on the checkered battlefield, Alice's death... at _his _hands.

Tarrant forces himself to take three deep breaths, trying to calm his racing heart, his pounding head, his frantic pulse. He tells himself everything is fine, just fine. Alice is in Shuchland and Bayard would have sent one of his nearly-grown pups with news if anything were wrong although it might take a day – even at a run! – to arrive at Mamoreal from that distant realm and by then Alice could be _dead and Tarrant would __**be too LATE TO SAVE HER AND–!**_

"HATTER!"

Belated, Tarrant realizes he'd been shouting at the tabletop, his fingers tangled in his hair.

Once again, he closes his eyes and clears his throat. Removing his hands from his hair, Tarrant takes another deliberate breath, leans back and states, "I'm fine."

"_Trump!_" Thackery shouts, suddenly.

Tarrant blinks then notices the fact that there are three hands of cards laid out on the table, each lying face-up for all to see.

"We were just passing the time," Chessur comments.

"Shall we deal you in?" Mally invites.

Tarrant sighs. "Aye. Go on and deal with me."

Thackery picks up the deck and, bending the stack of cards, shoots an assortment in Tarrant's direction. Choosing five at random, he places them on the table in front of him.

"You don't want _those!_" Mally informs him, scandalized. "Pick up that three by your elbow!"

Indifferently, Tarrant does. He replaces the King of Spades with the Three of Clubs and flicks the extra card at Chessur's pile.

"I'll never win with this wretched addition!" the cat bemoans, resentfully sliding the Six of Hearts in Thackery's direction.

"_Six!_" the March Hare exclaims and pulls his ears frantically.

"Six impossible things before breakfast," Tarrant muses. He closes his eyes and tries to imagine the six things Alice will choose for today: One...

"_Crumpets!_" Thackery shouts.

"Oh, yes. Would you like one?" Chessur asks solicitously, passing the plate.

Tarrant accepts the dish and tosses it over his shoulder without even glancing at its contents.

Chessur grumbles, "A simple 'No, thank you' would have sufficed."

"No, thank you," Tarrant says flatly.

Mally giggles hysterically and Thackery knocks over his teacup with his foot.

"Thackery!" Chessur yowls. "You uncivilized _leporid!_ The next time I see even _one toe _above the tabletop, I'll take these cards and –!"

"_Toes!_" Thackery enthuses, looking down to give his furry feet a thorough study... _below_ the tabletop.

Chessur, exasperated, sighs.

"Found something unexpected there, have you?" Mally asks, scampering across the table to assist Thackery with his inspection.

Tarrant watches them. He's too tired to bother with a smile or a pun, but he _does _appreciate his friends' attempts to cheer him and –when that fails as it inevitably does – distract him. With the contents of his hat workshop organized alphabetically, by color, age, height, weight, width, delightfulness, and likely-to-be-met-with-Alice's-approval, he's running out of ways to keep himself preoccupied. After all, Alice had promised to be back before he knows it. Tarrant is doing his part – admittedly, not all that well, but he's trying! – to _not _know it before these sixteen days have passed.

The gentle whisper of the kitchen door opening rouses Tarrant from his deep non-contemplation of his hand of cards. He looks up as Nivens McTwisp hops in... followed by Bayard's second-eldest pup, Bayto.

Alarmed – for why would Bayard have sent his son if something _dreadful hadn't __**occurred!**_ – Tarrant stands, knocking over the bench.

"HATTER!" Chessur preempts his rambling, frantic, raging madness. "I'm sure everything is _fine._ Bayto, perhaps you could put this poor, lovesick fellow out of his considerable misery?"

Nivens gives Tarrant a nervous glance. At his side, Bayto – _uselessly!_ – pants and struggles for breath. "Yes, yes, all is well!" Nivens assures everyone. Then, with another glance at the new arrival, says, "If you don't mind, Bayto, I'll do the honors?"

The pup nods wearily, clamors onto the bench next to Chessur, who pushes a cup of tea at him, and then slurps quite rudely at his beverage. Tarrant doesn't pay any attention when Mally starts scolding him for his poor table manners and Thackery picks up his saucer and begins guzzling his spilt tea with deafening enthusiasm.

"Oh, just _listen _to what you've started, you!" she moans.

"Out with it, McTwisp," Tarrant growls, not in the mood for any of the tomfoolery he would have greatly enjoyed eight days ago.

Clearing his throat, glancing to Chessur for reassurance (which is provided... if a too-wide, too-toothy grin _can _be reassuring), and then reaches into his waistcoat pocket. Tarrant watches him remove an envelope and, unable to stop himself, he snatches it from his paw. His hands shake as he gingerly wrestles open the missive and, when he loses patience with trying to urge the folded parchment out of its sheath, rips the envelope wide open and dumps the contents on the tabletop.

The slurping war reaches a cease-fire as various colorful sketches scatter across the table.

"Oh, how _lovely!_" Mally enthuses, picking up one that depicts gently rolling green fields in soft, morning light. Thackery sniffs another sketch of a sandstone palace with great, gold-capped turrets. Chessur forgets his manners completely and hovers over the table itself, studying each image with the end of his tail in the sugar bowl.

Tarrant unfolds the letter and, as Nivens reluctantly takes a seat in Chessur's vacated space (rather than sit next to Tarrant!), he checks the signature and, _suddenly_, everything is all right again!

"It's from Alice," he tells them, relaxing. All at once and from all directions, he's suddenly being prompted to read the message aloud. Tarrant clears his throat and begins:

_"My dear friends,_

_"How is everything in Mamoreal? Does the castle still stand? Chessur, mind your tail, now. You know how it gets into trouble when you're not paying attention..."_

"Oh, botheration!" the Cheshire Cat grumbles, noticing its unfortunate location. "My apologies," he says with a sheepish grin. "Please continue."

With a half-hearted glare, Tarrant does:

_"Shuchland is beautiful. The sketches I've sent are of places we've visited – I mean, the queen, Prince Avendale, Avendale's Champion, myself, and our guard. (I'm afraid we've been rather conspicuous during our tour here!) The Royal Artisan also came with us and produced these wonderful pictures so that we might have a few mementos from our trip._

_"The first is Palace Avenfaire, home of the royal family –_"

"Give it here!"

"Mine! Mine! Mine!"

"Silence! _I _shall hold the picture for _all _to see!"

"Are they... always like this?" Nivens wonders from behind his teacup, eying Mallymkun, Thackery, and Chessur, respectively.

"I sure hope so!" Bayto comments, wolfing down a cucumber sandwich.

"_A-__**hem!**_" Tarrant interjects, once again glaring.

Smiling in apology, Chessur meekly holds aloft the first illustration for all to clearly admire.

Tarrant resumes:

_"The first is Palace Avenfaire, home of the royal family. Upon our arrival on the second evening of our journey (we stayed overnight at the inn at the Underland Crossroads at the Snud border), we were greeted with a festival atmosphere – dancers and singers and musicians and even a girl with a snake she'd charmed – celebrating our arrival. Prince Avendale and the king and queen met us most considerately at the castle entrance and welcomed us into their home._

_"The banquet that night was truly memorable! I wish I could have bottled up a bit of the excitement and sent it on to all of you!_"

"Should've thought to ask the queen how to do that," Chessur grumbles. "_Uplanders!_"

Tarrant ignores that.

_"I promise to tell you all about it once we return. And perhaps convince the queen to host a Shuchland-style party at Mamoreal someday so that you will experience it for yourselves!_

_"The second drawing is of the Shuchland Orash Orchards, where they grow the most fantastic fruit! There's no Grobben or Wassailin here in Shuchland as everyone drinks Orashlach. It's a wonderful beverage that warms one from the inside-out but doesn't leave behind such a horrid aftertaste –"_

"Wassailin!" Thackery gags in agreement.

_"_– _nor a thunderous headache in the morning._"

"Grobbenale is _evil!_" Mally concurs.

_"I've already packed a few bottles so that we can all sit 'round the table and sample it together when the queen and I have returned._"

"I'm quite looking forward to that!" Chessur announces.

_"The third image is of the Bay of Light, the harbor near the capital city. It sparkles in the sunlight like diamonds –_"

"Eh? What're those?" Mally asks.

"Die a-mond! Die almond! Dyed almonds!" Thackery stares at the displayed artwork. "_Ooh._ **Blue** almonds! _Pretty..._"

_"And the queen experienced her very own madness at the morning market – a brewer's madness, I'm sure – and we've more than compensated for the spaces left in the trunks after we'd presented our gifts to the royal family for their hospitality._"

"You made some hats for their majesties, didn't you, Tarrant?" Chessur ventures.

"Aye," he says plainly and resumes reading.

_"In the final picture – the portrait – you can see the king and queen as well as Prince Avendale and our queen. (But of course, you'd recognize her!) The fellow standing next to me is Avenleif, Prince Avendale's cousin and his Champion._"

"Looks a bit chummy, don't you think?" Mally asks in a suspicious tone.

Chessur agrees, "He _does_ seem to be standing rather close..."

"Off with his head!" Thackery shouts, then, when every pair of eyes in the room turns in his direction, he twitches and twitters, "Bad idea! Bad idea! Apologies!" And grabbing his ears, dives under the table again, belatedly snatching his brunch plate and pulling it beneath as well.

Tarrant tries not to look at the image, but knowing that he'll see _his Alice_ there is a siren's call he can't fight. When he raises his gaze to the card now on display, he sighs. There is Alice, smiling gently in the portrait, as if she's truly looking _right at __**him!**_ Alice... alive and well and so _lovely_ it makes his heart ache! Tarrant doesn't bother with the other figures in the picture and doesn't have to worry about ignoring one in particular as Chessur had thoughtfully covered the prince's Champion's image with his paw.

Feeling even more calm now, Tarrant continues:

_"They use scimitars here, those wickedly-curved swords, which I've been fortunate enough to try my hand at. The skills required are quite different from those needed for the broadsword, but I shalln't bore you with the details now._

_"Everyone here has been hospitable and honestly pleased to make our acquaintance. The people of Shuchland are quite honorable and often humble – is anyone, by chance, considering words that start with the letter H today? _

_"I hope, one day, all of you will be able to visit this wondrous place and see, smell, taste, hear, and feel it for yourselves!_

_"All my love,_

"_Alice_

_"P. S. I've yet to have any decent tea here, so all of you had best save us some for when we return! This Shuchish coffee is rather... lacking."_

"She misses our teas!" Mally exclaims happily.

Tarrant smiles. "Aye, she does." His happiness only lasts long enough for him to fold the letter and reassemble the scraps of envelope around it, as if wrapping the poor, naked thing in a robe. Once that is done, however, Tarrant frowns: not a single line of that letter had been written to _him!_ It hurts that Alice wouldn't have written anything _especially_ for his eyes. No: _don't run your fingers through with your sewing machine! _No: _I haven't used a drop, dab, or dribble of the Pain Paste!_ And, most distressingly, no: _Hatter, why __**is**_ _a raven like a writing desk?_ Despairing once again, Tarrant cradles his head in his hands and closes his eyes.

"Ahem..."

Reluctantly, Tarrant opens his eyes again. At his elbow, Nivens fidgets noticeably before retrieving another item from his waistcoat pocket and placing it on the table next to Tarrant's elbow.

"This is also from Alice," the white rabbit says.

He stares down at the envelope. His disbelief – Alice had written a whole letter _just to __**him!**_ – melts into hope – the name on the parchment is, without a doubt, his own and written in _Alice's hand!_ – and that hope twists into delight.

Collecting the envelope with reverence, Tarrant excuses himself – "I beg your forgiveness for reading this letter in private!" – and hies away to their – _his and his Alice's! –_ apartment. Slamming the door – "Oy, a bit of _respect_ if you _don't __**mind!**_" the keyhole grouches – he hurries to the table and takes his customary seat. He's more careful opening this envelope and gently urging the contents free.

Heart pounding, Tarrant unfolds the letter.

_My dearest Tarrant,_

_All is well here in Shuchland, so please do not worry about me. I'm fine._

Oh, how well she knows him! Of course, her health and happiness is his most paramount concern and she'd very considerately obliged to set his mind at ease right away!

_I'm safe and well and, when time permits, keeping up with my training. We have not experienced any unpleasantness at all during this trip so I haven't even had to open the jar of Pain Paste!_

He sighs happily at that.

_But, how are __**you**__? The castle must be very quiet these days. I hope Mally, Thackery, and Chessur are keeping you company. And that they're not doing too bad a job of it._

_I miss you completely, utterly, desperately, and helplessly. Every time I chance to look at my left hand and see our heart line, it makes the ache all the more poignant, for I remember your laughter and kindness and passion and I feel you with me and yet, when I look up, you are nowhere to be seen._

_But I will see you very soon! (I must tell myself this, no matter the day or hour, otherwise I might... well, I might go... Hm. I'm considering a word that starts with the letter M...)_

_My every thought is of you, Tarrant, and of ravens and writing desks._

_Yours despite the distance between us,_

_Alice_

Closing his eyes, Tarrant leans back in his chair and smiles. For the first time in days, he feels completely and utterly _at peace!_ For several minutes, he simply relishes the knowledge that she had written to him, and then, when he realizes he cannot remember her _exact _words, opens his eyes and devours her letter again and again and _again!_

When his stomach is growling and the sun has risen high enough to demand all of Underland to attend to lunch, Tarrant reluctantly folds the parchment and reaches for the envelope. Picking it up, he blinks at the thickness of it. And perhaps... is it a bit heavier than it ought to be?

Setting aside the letter, Tarrant investigates the inexplicable not-just-an-ordinary-envelope-ness of the envelope. His fingers locate and gently remove a card of thick paper and, turning it over, he _nearly_ gasps. His breath _does _get turned around in his throat, however, causing his chest to ache. There, in his hands, is _Alice._ A much-smaller-than-she-ought-to-be Alice, but Alice, nonetheless!

The portrait is breathtaking. His Alice stands on a foreign balcony. He can see the hint of sky and kingdom behind her. She smiles for him – _it's her __**just-for-Tarrant**_ _smile!_ – and stands with her hand raised – _it's the left one! _– and placed against a pillar. Alice poses in what he imagines must be a traditional Shuchish dress: a short top that doesn't _quite _reach her belly and a long, straight skirt. Over her shoulder – _the right one!_ – a long, wispy-looking scarf cascades across her body, covering most – but not _all!_ – of her exposed stomach. His eyes follow the curve of her hips – the smallest hint of which is generously revealed above the waist of the skirt – up to her navel and then...

He'd close his eyes and sigh if it wouldn't deprive him of this vision! Tarrant savors the sight of her heart line, masterfully captured by the Royal Artisan. The blue lines twine up her arm, over her bare shoulder – for the top she's wearing only secures over the right one! – and arcs over her chest. There, over her heart, Tarrant finds the mark that had begun to emerge only forty-one days ago. There, the delicate knot of blue rests in stark contrast to her skin. Where Tarrant's own dark red mark is a four-pointed star, Alice's is an intriguing oval. And even in this rendition of her image, he can see the hint of the intricate design he knows so well.

_Alice..._

_His _Alice!

Tarrant ignores his grumbling, rumbling stomach and spends the afternoon in his robe and slippers and pajama trousers, sitting with his Alice and smiling like a poor, lovesick fool.

And he hopes for three very distinct things:

One, that Alice will return on the sixteenth day, safe and well, as promised.

Two, that she's permitted to bring that fascinating garment with her!

And, three, that the Shuchland Royal Artisan does _not_ happen to be a man!

**

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**

[End of Chapter 1]


	41. Book 2, Love in Shuchland, 1 of 2

**__****Thank you****_ for all the_****__**** fantastic reviews!**

**__****

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**

Chapter Two: Love in Shuchland

**[Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]**

On the morning of the eighth day, Alice wakes the same way she's woken _every _morning since leaving Mamoreal, since she'd turned away from her lover and ridden off at the queen's side without once looking back.

Gasping, Alice grasps her night shirt in her hand and tries to control her pounding heart. She takes one deep breath and then another, but – just like all the other mornings – her heart races for nearly fifteen minutes before it calms. Still, Alice doesn't get up. She waits. And there! A minute or so later, it starts again: the aching, racing, pounding! Her heart has _never _subjected her to such treatment! It's almost as if she's terrified or enraged or panicked, but Alice feels no emotions of the sort whatsoever.

It's all very... strange.

She waits a bit more, just to be sure another attack doesn't occur.

The first time it had happened, she'd been quite worried. _Is it __**normal**_ _for someone my age to experience heart palpitations?_ she'd wondered. It had been quite distressing when the panic had lasted so very long and then, after a brief pause, had started again and again and yet again! The first time it had happened – at the Snud Crossroads Inn – Alice had been concerned, and the second time – here at Palace Avenfaire – she'd nearly sought out the Royal Physician! But she'd hesitated, for – as the Queen's Champion – it would do no good _at all_ for her to appear weak on foreign soil! So she had resolved to wait and see if these occurrences became painful or more intense.

They never have.

Every morning, it is nearly the same experience. The timing differs from day to day, but that is all. And so, Alice has not bothered to mention it to Mirana.

When her heart has been quiet in her chest for several consecutive minutes, Alice dares to swing her legs over the side of the bed and stand. She's in the midst of dressing for the day when she feels a slight twinge of inexplicable excitement, as if some desperate hope has been answered favorably.

"Curiouser and curiouser," she murmurs, massaging the flesh over her heart. But her heart isn't finished; with one final _throb_ it quiets.

Sighing out her relief, Alice buckles her sword belt to her waist and turns toward the queen's bed. They've shared this room since their arrival and Alice is glad. She would have worried constantly if Mirana had been out of her sight all night. Of course, Mirana had protested – "Alice, you needn't be on your guard here! We're among friends! And, besides, I'm afraid I have the very bad habit of snoring before I manage to fall asleep..." – but Alice had insisted, and had listened to the queen snore gently every night for thirty minutes before finally quieting, and Alice had stayed.

She checks to make sure Mirana is still sleeping soundly and then Alice wanders over to the window and balcony overlooking the capital city. She selects an Orash from a nearby platter and, indulging in a peaceful breakfast, lets her mind wander.

She wonders how her Hatter is doing. And she hopes Chessur, Mally, and Thackery have taken her request to heart and are looking after him and distracting him until she gets back. She also wonders if Bayto has delivered her letters yet.

_Poor Bayto._ Alice sighs. She knows what it feels like to be homesick. Sometimes she still is. There are days when she'd do almost anything to be back in her mother's house... So, when she'd noticed the poor fellow moping about, she'd asked Bayard if he could spare his son for a mission of "vital correspondence."

Now there's just Bayard and his most daring pup, Bayne, to sniff out trouble. And, of course, three noses are better than two but with all the sniffling Bayto had been doing, Alice doubts he would have smelled much anyway.

"Alice...?"

She turns as the queen sits up and squints at Alice's already-made bed. "Here, Your Majesty. Orash?"

Mirana yawns, stretches, and rises from bed. Her grace is undiminished despite just waking, but she does tend to list a bit too far to one side or the other. Alice hides a smile and makes room for the queen on the balcony bench. Sinking down to admire the view and holding her own Orash, Mirana sighs contentedly. "It's so lovely, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is." Alice keeps her eyes on the cityscape but can't resist adding, "Almost as _lovely_ as a certain prince, you think?"

"Oh, he _is_, isn't he? Why just last evening, at dinner he..." Mirana blinks, finally noticing Alice's silent chuckles. "Alice! That was _not _very nice!"

"My apologies, Your Majesty."

But Mirana suddenly doesn't seem the least bit bothered by the teasing. She simply sighs. "Yes, yes, he's lovely, too."

"And will we be seeing him again today or have you made other plans?"

"Oh, well, I thought we might take up Madame Shrava's invitation this morning."

In mid-bite of Orash, Alice's eyes pop open wide. Quickly chewing and swallowing, Alice squeaks, "The court dancer lessons? _Are you...?_ Wait..." She studies Mirana's patently innocent face. "You're just making this up because I teased you just now."

Mirana giggles. "Yes, you're right. But she _did _invite us to her studio for lessons and I'm seriously considering it!" Mirana pauses and it's not until her next words have left her mouth that Alice realizes the pause had been meant for dramatic effect: "Just think of how much Tarrant will appreciate _that _present from you!"

Alice groans. "Oh, you're dangerous. It's bad enough you had Magenka do my portrait while I was wearing that... that..."

"That _divine_ creation," Mirana interjects. "You looked _lovely _in your sarong, Alice."

"Another 'lovely'."

"It's my word for the day."

"_Lovely._"

Mirana laughs and nudges Alice's shoulder with her own. "Come now, wouldn't you like to learn _something _of this culture that doesn't involve rolling around in the dirt with sharp objects?"

"I _never _rolled in the dirt!"

"Sand, then."

"Oh... well, I guess there was a bit of sand that one time."

Mirana grins and, eyes sparkling, comments in a conspiratorial tone. "Don't worry Alice, I've packed your sarong all ready."

"You didn't! Just leave it here, Mirana! I'll never wear it!"

"No, no, no!" the queen sing-songs. "It's already packed and I've hidden it so well, you'll never find it and take it out before we leave!"

"We have six more days," Alice calculates. "I'm sure I can surprise you."

"We shall see!"

"You know what I'd like to see..." Alice begins. "I'd like to see exactly _where _that portrait of me has got to..."

Because Mirana is still a bit groggy and Alice is watching her like a hawk, she catches the brief smile of smug, sneaky triumph.

"Mirana..." Alice warns, feeling decidedly unwell, despite the fabulous Orash.

"Well... I knew _you'd _never appreciate it – honestly, you looked _lovely!_ – so I..."

"You _what?_"

Mirana ducks her head and lifts her fruit, mumbling that sounds suspiciously like "sent-it-on-in-Tarrant's-letter" but no, Mirana wouldn't have done that... Wait, _would she?_

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty – I think your breakfast impaired my understanding."

The queen lowers her Orash and says, daringly, "I slipped it into the envelope containing your letter to Tarrant."

Alice stares at her. "I... don't believe you!"

"Would I lie to you?"

"That's not the point! Mi_ra__NA__!_"

The queen pats Alice on the knee. "Oh, come now, Alice. Let the poor man have _something _to tide him over!" She bites her lip and giggles, "So, as I've already packed your sarong and Madame Shrava has invited us to learn the local dances _and _Tarrant will be _most _looking forward to seeing everything you've... picked up here..."

Alice gapes. "You. Are. Devious!"

"You're only just now noticing?"

"Apparently..."

Mirana giggles. Alice almost feels sorry for Prince Avendale. _Almost._

"Just promise me we _won't _be making fools of ourselves at Madame Shrava's _today_," Alice pleads. The idea of learning how to dance like... like _that _will take a bit of getting used to!

"No, no, not today, I'm afraid. The Royal Apothecary has offered to share some local remedies with me."

"I see... as I can't very well protect you from powdered extract of Himoha flower, I'll be your test subject this morning?"

The queen hesitates. "Well... actually, I thought you might appreciate another opportunity to roll around in the dirt with a few sharp objects while I'm engaged."

"Sand," Alice reminds her.

"Pardon me. _Sand._"

Alice considers that. On the one hand, she could stand around in a musty kitchen watching Mirana and the wizened Royal Potion Maker discuss blending properties and dynamic effects... _or_ she could spend a few hours in the training arena with a borrowed scimitar and her new friend and fellow Champion, Avenleif. "Decisions, decisions," Alice muses.

The queen shakes her head on a laugh. "I never should have asked Tarrant and the others to show you how to hold a sword!"

"I'm afraid – as proper young ladies go – I'm a bit of a lost cause."

"That's all right. Tarrant found you." Mirana beams. "Things couldn't have worked out better than that!"

* * *

The only time Alice doesn't think of Tarrant – the only moments when both the bittersweet memories and the yawning, aching dearth of his presence lessen at all – is at times like these.

"You're holding it like a letter-opener!" Avenleif laughs.

Glancing around the _seemingly_ abandoned training grounds, Alice hisses, "Keep it to a dull roar, would you?"

"Or what?"

"Or I'll open _you!_" she threatens with a grin.

Avenleif laughs again and, moving to stand next to her, demonstrates the proper grip on his own weapon.

And then, Alice muses, sometimes – at times like these – she is so suddenly and poignantly reminded of her lover she nearly sobs out loud. For she remembers when Tarrant had taught her to hold a fighting staff and a broadsword. She remembers how he'd never hesitated to touch her hands, manipulate her fingers, even wrap his arms around her to correct her posture. He'd never hesitated to put his hands – she remembers the moment she'd realized how _strong_ his milliner's hands are! – on her hips or nudge her knee to correct her stance. She remembers...

"Alice? Miss Alice? Miss Alice-y-poo?"

She blinks and glares at Prince Avendale's Champion. "You did _not _just call me... what I think you called me."

"That depends on what it is you think I just called you!" He smirks.

Alice wishes she could do something about that smirk, but she'd promised – oh, botheration! Here come the memories again! – Tarrant that she wouldn't get into any situations requiring the Pain Paste. Or... had she promised? Maybe not, but she'd hate to disappoint him and he'll worry if that jar is missing _any _of its contents when she gets back...

"Are you actually planning on getting anything done today or shall I order some refreshments for a picnic in the arena?" Avenleif says, chuckling. "The view's a bit boring, but it's a nice day, so..."

"Stuff it," Alice mumbles. She demonstrates the up-swinging cut that he'd been trying to teach her. "Like this?"

"Only if you've got a letter you need opened."

Alice sighs.

"Here," he shows her how to fold her grip around the hilt one finger at a time. Alice forces herself to concentrate – after all, she's sure Avenleif has _much _better things to be doing with his time besides giving her lessons! – and copies his grip.

"Much better," he approves and narrates the necessary motions as he swings the blade up, from right to left. Alice follows his lead, learning the footwork as well for each basic attack.

"You're a bit slow at picking this up today," Avenleif comments after showing her the correct way to shift her weight and return thrust for the fifth time. "You're not worried our old Gribblie is going to poison your queen while he's got her locked away in his laboratory?"

"What? No, no..."

The he-lion pauses and thoughtfully taps the end of his sword hilt against his chin. "Perhaps you're famished for tea?"

"Famished for...?" She smiles wistfully. "Maybe just a bit. I suppose you had a hard time going so long without coffee when your prince was visiting Mamoreal?"

He smiles. "And what a torturous experience it was, to go so long without! But I've come through the ordeal a stronger warrior for it, so I'll do you the favor of _not _telling you where we keep the tea here!"

Alice huffs. "You'll tell me. Eventually."

"Oh, ho! So confident are we?"

"Everyone has a weak spot..."

Alice twitches as the memory slams into her: Tarrant leaning over her, his nose just barely touching her neck as they lie on the floor of his workshop. He'd been _so _strong holding her down – yet he'd never again used that strength against her deliberately and outside of their lessons! – as he'd whispered, "Why aren't you fighting back? You promised you would..."

The flash of metal startles her and Alice reacts, raising her scimitar and countering the blow before she even has the chance to think about what she's doing. Avenleif advances, his attack unpredictably timed and executed. And at long last, Alice is able to pull her mind away from Mamoreal and the Outlander waiting for her there.

Some time later – perhaps thirty minutes or so – Avenleif finally disarms her with a practiced maneuver that looks far too simple to work so effectively.

"Halt," he says.

Braced to dodge, duck, or dive away from his next swing, she halts. With a sigh, she walks over to her fallen, borrowed sword and retrieves it from the packed sand of the arena.

"I suppose that was a _bit _better than last time," she allows.

"A bit," he agrees, his golden eyes studying her. "Too bad I had to go to such dire lengths to get your attention."

She sighs again, agreeing completely.

"Left part of your mind back in the queen's castle?" he ventures.

Alice wipes the sand off the blade with a rag to hide the flash of memories and reminders _that _comment brings up. Avenleif waits for her to reply, but she can't think of anything to say.

"You'll be heading back in six days," he reminds her, his tone a bit... subdued.

"Yes."

"And then you'll be able to drink all the tea you want!"

Alice chuckles at his attempt at levity. "Yes, I'm desperately missing my teatime," she replies, participating in the joke and trying _not _to visualize Tarrant's delighted grin over the teapot in too much detail. "But..."

She looks at the prince's Champion, her new friend. Although each member of the royal family has their own personal Champion, Avenleif is the only one out of the king's, queen's, and Avendale's elder brothers' and sisters' Champions who has bothered to be kind to her. She supposes this makes sense: should Mirana and Avendale marry, Avenleif and Alice will be working together quite a lot... at Mamoreal. It only seems reasonable to attempt a good working relationship.

In addition, it only seems reasonable that he'd try to help her hone her skills in battle. After all, he'll have to rely on Alice to protect the queen just as she'll have to rely on him to look after Avendale. There might even be occasions – say, in the confusing melee of battle – where they'll have to use each other's weapons. So it's best for all if Alice is familiar with the scimitar and _that's _why he's teaching her how to use it. After all, neither would ever wish to allow anything... unfortunate to happen to their lieges.

So, really, it only makes _sense_ for Avenleif to try to make the best of the situation, but...

"Thank you," she tells him. "For the lessons... and the... hospitality."

For a moment, his expression is startlingly open. A little surprised and... something else... something that reminds her of a moment under the boughs of an ever-blossoming cherry tree not so long ago...

Uncomfortable, Alice turns away and mumbles, "Even if you insist on denying me my tea."

The moment passes when Avenleif laughs. "Trials and tribulations build character, Champion Alice."

"I'll try to remember that, Champion Avenleif."

* * *

[End of Chapter 2: Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]


	42. Book 2, Love in Shuchland, 2 of 2

**__****Chapter Two: Love in Shuchland**** [Scenes 3 & 4 of 4]**

In the following days, Avenleif proves to be a very good friend, indeed, to Alice.

"It's not teatime yet," he warns her whenever he notices her mind wandering. And, with an apologetic smile, she brings her attention back to the arena, or luncheon service, or walking tour. After all, it's _her _job to protect the queen – her _friend_ – and Alice had better make sure she does it rather than asking the prince's Champion to do _both _their jobs!

"Sorry, thought I smelled some Throeston Blend," she replies. And, just that simply, she's forgiven her lapse in attention.

Not only is it frighteningly easy to get caught up in her memories of Tarrant, but it's also dangerously distracting to see how _obviously _and _utterly _Mirana and Avendale are falling in love. Each day, it looks more and more like the prince and his Champion will be accompanying them back to Mamoreal when they depart. Or following very shortly thereafter.

Alice had asked Mirana about that:

"Are you sure he's the one you want?"

"Oh, yes! He's... he's..."

Alice had taken pity on Mirana as the queen had struggled for words. "And the carnivore bit?" After all, that had been a legitimate concern before...

"He says he's been on a vegan diet for the last four months. He doesn't mind."

Impressed, Alice continues, "And his position as prince of a foreign land?"

"Irrelevant. He has two elder brothers and twin sisters ahead of him in line for the throne. He won't have many obligations tying him here."

"And... heirs?" Alice had dared to ask.

Mirana had blushed. "I've hinted that I'd rather a daughter that resembles my kind... to inherit the throne when I retire. He seemed... pleased."

And, having looked over the childbearing rites between members of differing species before, Alice knows exactly what Mirana is talking about: when parents of different origins bring descendants into the world, the children must either take after one side of the family or the other but not both. By marrying the White Queen, Avendale would have to concede to his wife's higher station and give her the heirs she requires: the prince will likely not have any child-cubs to raise. Not with Mirana. It's a considerable sacrifice to make. For anyone.

"I'm so happy for you," Alice had said, her questions exhausted and the queen still looking as luminously in-love as ever.

"It's almost sickening, isn't it?" Avenleif asks as he and Alice watch over a private picnic in the Royal Orash Grove on the final full day of the visit.

"Not really. Mirana always looks like that. I'm accustomed to it," Alice replies, scanning the surroundings again out of habit.

Avenleif coughs back a laugh – it would be _most _impolite to interrupt the whispered conversation just at the base of the knoll. "I was referring to the prince."

Alice snorts. "Of course you were. Oh, wait, you mean he doesn't always have that flunderwhapped grin on his face?"

"Hardly. Nor are his whiskers normally trimmed and polished with such care. It's... painful to watch!"

"Love's hard on everyone," Alice informs him and forcibly pushes Tarrant's image away. _I'm working now!_ "But don't worry. I won't interrupt the experience for you. It builds... _character._"

Avenleif chortles behind a large paw-shaped hand. "When you say things like that, Champion Alice, I _truly _believe you _did_ slay the Jabberwocky!"

"Fate knows how _devastated _I'd be if you didn't credit me with it," she returns, thinking how talking with Avenleif often resembles a tennis match.

He opens his mouth to reply, but turns to the left when – suddenly – a flock of birds bursts into the air above the small orchard. Alice scans the ground as Avenleif examines the canopy and sky.

"Magenka," Alice says, spotting the large, magenta butterfly flitting towards them. Alice keeps her eyes on the Royal Artisan's approach as Avenleif scans the area once more to be sure there are no other surprises.

The butterfly flutters and droops her antennae apologetically. "There's no harm in keeping us on our toes," Avenleif tells her without looking away from his survey of the secluded grove.

Alice watches as the butterfly moves toward the picnicking couple, no doubt in order to create another one of those beautiful images she'd been supplying them with all throughout their visit.

"We ought to ask her to do one of us," Avenleif says suddenly. "To immortalize our camaraderie," he explains in an oddly gruff tone.

"Sounds painful when you put it like that," she teases.

He winces and then chuckles. "It does, doesn't it?"

_And speaking of painful things..._ Alice dares to ask one question that's been niggling her ever since she'd arrived in Shuchland but had never felt comfortable enough to ask. She assumes her question is deeply personal as it had never been addressed during Fenruffle's lectures on Shuchish custom and etiquette.

"Champion Avenleif, why does everyone in your family wear a claw on a string around their neck?"

He looks at her, startled. For a moment, he says nothing and then, glancing down at the small claw displayed around his own neck, above his full, dark mane, he says, "It's the... totem of the Aven family. As cubs, we're taught to fight and when we loose our first claw in combat, we keep it."

Alice winces. "That sounds... painful," she says, then winces again at how inadequately "painful" would describe such an experience.

"It is, but Gribblie makes a potion that helps us re-grow it, stronger than before. See?" He unsheathes his claws on his left paw and Alice sees how the middle one is pitch black while the others are candle-lit ivory in color.

"And if a cub never loses a claw in a fight?" she inquires.

Avenleif looks sad at this. "Then the cub is not Aven. Never will be."

Before Alice can protest how horrible that is, he continues, "Many of the court performers and ministers are cousins, uncles, aunts... siblings who couldn't perform the necessary sacrifice. They are called Oben, but everyone knows they were born Avens."

"Can their children never be Aven?" Alice thinks to ask after a moment.

"Of course. Or I wouldn't be the prince's Champion," Avenleif declares.

Alice relaxes a bit. At least the children aren't discriminated against for their parents' failure...

"The Aven family must be strong," he continues. "It's a brutal practice, I suppose, but necessary. This realm has enjoyed the peace and stability that comes from a strong monarchy for generations... because the weaker members of the family are..."

"Removed from power?" Alice supplies.

"Exactly. We're all equals, bound to the same crown and family. There's no motive for greed, ambition, or glory, for all of the Avens know being a part of this family is all the success we shall ever need."

"That's..."

"Ridiculously sentimental?"

"No," Alice replies. "I was going to say it's... beautiful."

"I'm a poet, didn't you know?"

Alice chuckles.

"And another poetic thing about the First Claw," Avenleif volunteers. "The Avens bestow it upon their mate, as a reminder of the other's devotion and strength and bravery. The actual giving and receiving of it..."

"Yes?" Alice presses, curious.

Avenleif gives her a wry grin. "This is going to sound strange to an Uplander..."

Alice feels an answering wry grin shape her lips. "I think I'm rather accustomed to strange things by now."

He laughs. "I expect you are. Well, let's see how you do with this one." Avenleif grins and tells her, "The giving and receiving of the Frist Claw causes the soul of each partner to become _one._"

Alice gapes at him.

He chuckles. "And you said you could handle 'strange'...!"

"Well, that's a bit... _more..._ than I expected."

"Obviously."

Alice shakes her head and marvels at the unlimited impossibilities of this magical place and its inhabitants. The thought reminds her of her own experience with Underlandian magic and she fists her left hand, as always sheathed in the dark glove she wears. Now that she thinks about it, a ritual that binds two souls... how is that any more impossible than a ritual that binds two hearts?

Hesitantly, she persists, "Can it be undone?"

He nods. "Yes, the giver has to willingly acknowledge the refusal of his First Claw. It happens, but it's rare."

Alice looks up and glances at the claw around Avenleif's neck. "And that one's still your own?"

He nods, his golden eyes studying her. Alice can't meet his gaze so she looks over the grove again, but there's nothing to keep her attention; everything is peaceful.

"I wish you the best of luck in finding a... worthy recipient for it," Alice says, hoping the sentiment comes across despite her lack of experience in Shuchish customs.

"With any luck, I already may have," he replies levelly.

Alice fists her left hand again and wonders why she has goose bumps on her arms. "I look forward to meeting her... Oh!"

Alice stares at the couple on the picnic blanket as Prince Avendale reaches up and removes what is unmistakably his own First Claw from around his neck... and places it around Mirana's.

_Well, that looks rather... official, then,_ Alice thinks and makes a note to check that Mirana understands the significance at the first available opportunity.

Glancing at Avenleif, Alice smiles, feeling bashful and uncertain at having overseen this very private moment. "I hope your intended won't mind coming to Mamoreal, Champion Avenleif."

"No," he says, contemplatively. "I don't think she will. She even likes the tea there."

And because Alice has no reply to that odd statement, she gets back to work. Protecting the queen. And her soon-to-be husband.

* * *

"_Please_, Alice?"

Alice glares at the shimmering green fabric in Mirana's hands. "I thought you said you'd hidden that so deep in our trunks I'd never find it?"

"Well, I _did _hide it, but I _never _mentioned anything about packing it in a trunk!"

If only she had... Alice sighs, thinking of each and every crate, carton, and case sealed and awaiting transport on the morrow.

"Please wear your sarong tonight! It's our last chance to be seen wearing them in public!"

"Our _only _chance, you mean," Alice grumbles. Why, oh _why_, has the queen suddenly gotten over her shyness at wearing local garb _now?_ If _only _this trip had been scheduled for _fifteen_ days instead of _sixteen _and then they would have already left... before Mirana had discovered the gumption to wear a sarong to dinner!

Alice sighs. "You go ahead and wear yours, Your Majesty."

"Alone, Alice?" Mirana cajoles, "I'd feel so much better if we did this together."

_Just like those blasted dance lessons..._

"I shouldn't."

"Why-ever not?"

"I won't be well-prepared to defend you if I wear that thing. It restricts movement."

"Oh! But it can be wrapped as trousers! See?" She demonstrates, fitting the fabric over Alice's existing clothing.

"All right..." Alice concedes the point. "But it won't cover my heart line."

Mirana smiles. Alice grudgingly allows that the queen's _very_ familiar with this point of contention. They've discussed it... well, _daily _almost. "Alice... it's so endearing how you seek to protect Tarrant at all times, but we're among _friends _here. I'm sure no one would use that against either of you."

"Well, yes, but..."

"But you have no more excuses for not wearing your sarong! Now help me with mine and then I'll help you with yours!"

And because Mirana looks so delightfully happy, Alice can't bear to continue arguing with her. "All right..."

An hour later, when she enters the dinning room just behind Mirana, Alice ignores the startled glances and hushed whispers and escorts her queen to the seat beside her dumbstruck prince. Alice supposes he has every right to look dazed and elated. Mirana is resplendent in her pale peach sarong which glimmers silver with her movements. Around her neck, Avendale's First Claw is proudly – and knowingly! – displayed. Alice supposes her own appearance is a bit odd, after all, even worn as trousers, a Shuchish woman's sarong has never been meant to accommodate an assortment of knives and a broadsword. But not even Mirana's heartfelt lecture on how friendly everyone has been thus far could make Alice abandon her duties and the means to fulfill them!

Taking her seat, Alice dares a glance around the room. And, yes, several eyes are riveted on the First Claw being worn around Mirana's neck, but most are staring at Alice. And her heart line. At Tarrant's mark.

Oh, she'd _known _this had been a _very __**bad**_ idea!

She looks away and finds herself being studied by one of Avendale's twin sisters – a lioness who has never given any indication of having noticed Alice before. The she-lion examines Alice's heart line with a shocked expression.

Alice wonders if it would be rude for a _mere _Champion to start a conversation with an Aven princess...

"You... you're a Champion!" the woman hisses. "And yet, you are blood-bonded?"

"Yes..." Alice replies, feeling like she ought to argue against the accusations except... they're entirely true.

The she-lion places a paw over her mate's First Claw. Next to her, the princess's husband watches their conversation with great interest. The she-lion says, "And yet you _continue_ to risk your life for your queen, knowing what you hold in your very _hands?_"

Alice doesn't like the female's tone of voice: there's nothing wrong with having hands that are not large, clawed, or furry! "I do," she replies simply.

"What an utterly foolish husband you must have if he allows you to do such a thing!"

Losing patience, Alice pulls back her lips and bares her teeth. "_That_, Princess Avenana, is an issue between my husband and myself. But –" And here Alice inserts a smidgen of Obvious Hostility. "– we thank you for your _concern._"

Frustration and distaste turn the lioness's expression into a furious scowl. Luckily, Prince Avendale rises at that moment and offers Mirana his paw.

"If you'll excuse me," Alice manages and follows her queen without waiting for a response.

Avendale doesn't escort Mirana very far, just to one of the gauze-curtained balconies that overlook the city from the banquet hall. Seeing someone friendly and expected – Avenleif – fall into step beside her, Alice feels herself relax a bit.

They don't follow the queen and her prince out onto the balcony, but take positions on opposite sides of the open doorway. Alice has a clear view of the balcony and wall on Mirana's side and Avenleif covers the opposite view. The breeze carries murmured words and Alice tries not to listen to what is undoubtedly a private conversation. Between a couple betrothed by way of the Soul Bond.

Alice has to admit she's worried about Mirana. Had it been a wise decision to accept Avendale's First Claw so soon? And before the prince will be able to accompany them back to Mamoreal? Alice sighs and resigns herself to trusting Mirana to know what she's doing. After all, the queen is the one with several ancient tomes on sacred Underlanian rites to her name. Still, it weighs on Alice's mind.

Noticing the continuing silence despite the fact that she is most definitely _not _alone in her dutiful vigil, Alice glances in Avenleif's direction. It's odd that he hasn't made a comment yet. Usually, he's the one who starts their conversations while they're passing time, keeping an eye out for danger that – thus far – hasn't made an appearance. And Alice would certainly appreciate a distraction right about now! From Avenana's inappropriately-voiced opinion, at the very least! But then there's the journey home to consider and the queen's betrothal...

Alice looks over at the he-lion who stands opposite her and is startled by the fact that his gaze is _not _on the balcony and his prince, but on _Alice._ And she's startled all over again by the look in his eyes as he stares – unabashedly! – at the mark over her heart. When he notices her regard, he opens his mouth once, twice, and then he shakes his head and says nothing. Nothing at all. For the rest of the night.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2]


	43. Book 2, The Sixteenth Day, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Three: The Sixteenth Day**_ [Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]

When Alice startles awake on the fifteenth day – the morning of their departure – she waits patiently for the odd pounding of her heart to subside, then gets up, dresses, and wakes the queen.

"Oh... is it morning already?" Mirana moans, burrowing into a pillow.

"Yes, and Fenruffle will have all your new brewing utensils for kindling if you put us behind _his _schedule."

"Botheration..." she grumbles and reaches a hand out blindly.

Alice grasps it and pulls the queen up into a sitting position. She pours a cup of water for her. "Here, it helps with the muzziness."

"Thank you..." Mirana drinks in cautious sips. "Please never let me have more than four glasses of Orashlach again."

"I've already made a note of it, Your Majesty," Alice assures her with a wry grin. She lays out the queen's traveling clothes and tidies up. Fifteen minutes later, when Fenruffle knocks on their door, they're both ready to go... more or less. Alice keeps a discreet hand on Mirana's elbow to keep her from listing a bit too noticeably as they make their way to the grand hall to say their good-byes. As Mirana thanks the king and queen for their hospitality and accepts Avendale's promise to see her again very soon, Avenleif stands stoically, enduring the proceedings.

Hating to see him like this – _We were friends this time yesterday!_ – Alice searches for something to say to help fix this. All night, she'd blamed herself for not noticing his interest and dealing with it as soon as possible. But it had simply _never _occurred to her that his kindness and attention and generosity might have been generated by... attraction. Looking back on that day in the Orash grove, Alice realizes he'd more or less proposed to her. Very nearly! And now... and now their lieges will wed and she and Avenleif will be working together _every day_ at Mamoreal and he won't even _look in her direction!_

Alice bites her lip, closes her eyes, sighs, and prays for patience.

In the end, as the queen turns away and heads toward the great doors and the procession assembled and awaiting beyond, Alice says only, "Thank you for your kind hospitality, Your Majesties. Champion Avenleif."

Too little. Far, far too little had been said, but Alice doesn't have more time in which to say everything she ought. The ride to the Southern Underland Crossroads is very... long. And tiring. Over and over, Alice thinks of every mistake she'd made, how she might have unknowingly encouraged Avendale's Champion, what she should have said last night at the banquet when she'd had the chance...

And then she resents the fact that this... _difficulty_ has taken her thoughts away from Mamoreal, home, _Tarrant! _She's on her way **home** – _finally!_ – and yet she somehow manages to be weighed down with guilt over it!

"Alice?"

At the sound of the queen's gentle inquiry, Alice turns and regards her over the Bandersnatch's furry shoulder. "Yes, Your Majesty?"

"What's wrong? We're returning to Mamoreal. I thought that was what you wanted."

"It is. More than anything. I simply wish Champion Avenleif and I had not experienced a... difference of opinion before we'd left."

Mirana frowns. "An argument?"

"No. A... misunderstanding."

Mirana waits, expectant.

Alice sighs and relents. "A misunderstanding which seeing my heart line brought to light. Until then, I hadn't realized he... that is... _he_ hadn't known I was... _am_..."

"Oh..." Mirana says. That, and no more. (Apparently, her mind is still a bit befuddled with Orashlach. Otherwise, Alice is _sure_ she would have had more to say.)

"Yes. '_Oh_'," Alice agrees grimly. "I hope he can put it out of his mind when Prince Avendale next visits..."

And then Alice remembers the purpose – and the wondrous result! – of this trip and, feeling like an utter insensitive – and, as Tarrant would say – _slurivsh_ nitwit, Alice forces a bright smile.

"Truly... Congratulations, Mirana," Alice says softly to her friend. "The prince _adores _you. As your Champion, I completely approve of the match you've found for yourself. And, as your friend... I've never seen you so beautiful with happiness."

The queen smiles. "Thank you, Alice. It means a lot to me to hear you say that." And then Mirana releases a mournful sigh. "I shall miss him..."

Alice hesitates for a moment before deciding that, as it's a matter of the queen's well-being, she can't _not _ask: "And the First Claw? You're bound now... aren't you? Will you be all right so far away?"

Mirana's smile is tired, but genuine. "In many ways, the bond will make the separation easier for us both. He's always with me now. It feels as though I'm not alone, but..."

_But you are._ Alice finishes the thought in silence. She knows the feeling. Intimately.

"You'll see him again very soon," Alice replies.

Mirana nods and reaches for the claw still displayed around her neck. Although curious, Alice cannot bring herself to ask the queen to detail the bonding experience. Unlike the Thrice a-Vow, consummation had not been a component. So, how _exactly_ had that worked? Alice swallows her curiosity. There will be time – after arriving home and seeing Tarrant again and resuming her normal schedule – to investigate the answers to her musings in the queen's library.

"Yes, very soon," the queen murmurs. "Still..."

"I know," Alice says simply, thinking of Tarrant – of his battered hands caressing her face, of his arms tight around her waist, of his brogue (thick with passion and promises and pleasure) whispering in her ear... "I know."

* * *

On the morning of the sixteenth day – the day that Alice is due to return – Tarrant bursts into the kitchen... again. Chessur drapes his robe over his shoulders... again. Thackery tosses his slippers at his feet... again. Mally pushes a cup of strong tea next to his elbow... again.

It all happens – **again!** – for the _fifteenth time!_ It happens exactly as it has happened every morning since Alice's departure... and yet... somehow... _today_, Tarrant feels immeasurably _worse._

"Just a bit longer now," Chessur tells him consolingly. "Perhaps a bath while you wait?"

Tarrant ignores the suggestion.

"Crumpets!" Thackery recommends but no one dares to pass the dish.

"Cucumber sandwich?" Chessur ventures.

Still, Tarrant doesn't acknowledge the offers.

"A poke in the eye?" Mally suggests, waving her sword threateningly.

Scowling, Tarrant picks up the deck of trump cards and begins rhythmically shredding them into tiny pieces... one after the other. Thackery twitches and blinks as the pile of card confetti grows steadily. Chessur sighs dramatically every time Tarrant selects another victim from the top of the pile. Mally skips around the tea service and – following the utter decimation of every few cards – dives into the pile of rubbish as if plowing into a mound of just-raked autumn leaves.

"You _could _be doing something _productive_ while you're waiting," Chessur tries.

Tarrant tucks his chin in and glares at the reduced stack of cards. Finishing the utter ruin of the one currently in his possession, he reaches for another and slows his shredding speed by half.

"Stubborn Outlander."

Yes, Tarrant supposes he _is _stubborn. _Someone _has to be, otherwise the word wouldn't exist at all, and words _ought _to exist. Even words like "stubborn."

_"I've decided to __**stay**__, you stubborn milliner!"_

Yes, Alice _does _enjoy calling him stubborn! He can recall the way her eyes had flashed and her cheeks had flushed!

Tarrant closes his eyes and keeps shredding.

Shredding, shredding, shredding...

And when the last card has been turned into inked pulp, Thackery announces, "Card game's over!"

Mally giggles. "So who won?"

Chessur regards the tattered remains of the set. "Not the cards, apparently."

Thackery thumps the table with his teaspoon. "There! There!" he hiccups, waving the utensil at the pile of rubbish.

As nothing within arm's reach is shred-able – and, thus cannot provide an adequate distraction from the unsettling feeling he's experiencing – Tarrant lowers his head to his hands. Perhaps moving his skull to this slightly lower altitude will alleviate some portion of the dizzying ache that's taken up residence there...

"Chess, anyone?" the cat asks idly.

"Not _anyone!_ Just one!" Mally replies, chortling.

Thackery agrees, "One game of Chess!"

"Will you be heads or tails?" Mally asks, sending Thackery into spasms of hilarity.

Chessur eyes the March Hare's foot – which now rests _on the __**tabletop!**_ – with disdain. "Thackery, I _clearly _recall warning you about putting your overly hairy feet upon the table!"

"I don't clearly recall nuthin'!" Mally replies, then falls down in a fit of laughter.

"No more trump!" Thackery reminds all at the table, no doubt pointing out that Chessur's promised method of punishment has evaporated.

"_If you don't get that foot out of my sight this instant I shall __**pluck **__each, individual hair from it until there is __**no MORE FOOT!**_" Chessur roars at him.

Mally beats the table with her tiny fists, gasping for breath. "No... more... _FOOT!_"

"Yea, the hare's a-foot!" Thackery contributes.

"Callou! Callay!"

"A _rhyme!_"

Tarrant stares at the dormouse, whose laughter looks truly... painful. He winces and presses his palms against his temples.

Yes, painful. _Quite _painful. _Very, extraordinarily, undeniably..._

"Hatter?"

The laughter continues, muffled.

_... exceptionally, unavoidably, inexplicably..._

"_Hatter?_"

And silence settles around the kitchen table.

_... unbelievably, __**excruciatingly, TREMENDOUSLY...**_

"_HATTER?_"

Tarrant struggles with his gasping breaths, his suddenly pounding heart, the complete and utter abject TERROR driving his pulse.

"_**HATTER!**_"

He grits his teeth but doesn't feel the ache. He opens his eyes, but sees nothing.

_**... INCONCEIVABLY, HEART-STOPPINGLY...**_

Tarrant's eyes roll back in his head as, suddenly, the pain stops, his body stops, his mind stops, _everything _**stops! **and he tumbles off of the bench. He doesn't even feel it when he hits the stone floor – he's already unconscious.

_

* * *

_[End of Chapter 3: Scenes 1 & 2]


	44. Book 2, The Sixteenth Day, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Three: The Sixteenth Day**_ [Scenes 3 & 4 of 4]

_This time _Alice wakes up _before _the odd pounding of her heart can commence. For an instant, she allows herself to wonder if she's somehow cured herself of that strange ailment. By waking herself up before it had the chance to wake _her_, Alice wonders if she's conquered it...

_Have I beaten it?_ she wonders, and then grins wryly at the thought. _Everything's a battle to me, isn't it?_

She sighs.

_I do whatever I must to win, _Alice reminds herself, remembering the promise she's made time and time again to her lover. And even once to her queen. _Even if it means waking up at __**this**_ _ungodly hour._

It's so early in fact, that she can't even hear any activity in the yard: no one is feeding the chickens; no one is splitting and hauling firewood; no one is clanking about in the kitchen in the yard. The world is completely silent.

_Strange..._

Wondering if she dares to take advantage of the oddly peaceful moment, Alice contemplates closing her eyes and getting a bit more sleep before having to worry about getting up and ready for another day – _the __**last day!**_ – of riding. She's just decided to risk a few more minutes of slumber when something knocks against the roof over her head. Knocks, scrapes, slips, steps, and is silent.

Alice's eyes snap open. She stares up at the roof, frowning.

_Perhaps a bird, _she thinks.

Still... that had sounded like one _awfully __**big **_bird. Certainly not one of the chickens. Not even the meaty-looking rooster. In fact, the only bird Alice is aware of in Underland large enough to make that much racket against the inn's wooden shingles is... well, the Jubjub.

_But it's dead..._

Alice feels a flicker of unease as a contrary thought occurs to her:

_The Jabberwocky hadn't stayed dead, had it?_

No, indeed, it hadn't. So, could that mean that the Jubjub would rise again as well? Or is there more than one Jubjub bird in Underland? Would roosting on the roofs of inns be considered normal behavior if, in fact, a Jubjub _is _sitting a mere two arm's lengths above her head?

Alice shivers. Surely, it'll take off just as soon as the innkeeper and his family start moving about...

She glances at the tiny window in their attic room and measures the paleness of the silver dawn-light pouring in.

_A bit after dawn, _she thinks. Hadn't their hosts been up and preparing their farewell meals at about this time two weeks ago when they'd passed this way?

She thinks so...

Unsettled now, Alice knows she won't be able to get back to sleep until she investigates. She glances across the modest room at the queen, who is still sleeping quite peacefully in the other bed. She continues to listen to the utter silence of the inn, which suddenly presses in on her ears menacingly. Reluctantly, Alice pulls back the blankets and, collecting her knife – for the halls of the inn are far too narrow to wield a sword in properly! – she ghosts toward the door of their room. She spares another glance at Mirana, hoping the queen won't awaken and wonder why Alice is creeping around in her pajamas and boots, holding a knife. Alice would feel decidedly foolish at being caught sneaking up on their own door, but something... something seems... something is...

She presses her ear to a crack that the aged hinges can't quite manage to close. There's no sound of water pitchers being carried and set down next to the doors. There are no shuffling footsteps, creaking boards, hushed voices...

Alice leans away from the door, giving it a suspicious look. Dare she open it? Knowing the squeal the hinges are going to give, she hesitates. She opts to inspect the view from the window. Overhead, all is silent again.

Keeping out of sight of the yard below, Alice leans against the wall and glances cautiously outside. At first glance, everything seems quite normal. She can make out Bandy's furry rump over the low wall of the stables and Mirana's horse – Alfred – is flicking his tail at flies and dust motes. Alice feels her shoulders start to relax.

But then something moves just within the shadows of the forest that encircles the yard. She squints, not daring to blink, and studies the gloom... And, then...

There!

_There!_

_**There!**_

Alice counts _several _shadows moving in the trees. More than the innkeeper could possibly employ. More than can be accounted for by wondering if every single member of the Queen's Guard had decided to play a bit of hide-and-go-seek at daybreak...

Collecting her clothes for the day, Alice crosses to Mirana's bed and, laying a hand across the queen's mouth and nose, shakes her awake.

"Mrumph?"

"Hush," Alice nearly mouths. "Put these on. _Quietly._"

Mirana's startled expression tenses with alarm. "What...?" she mouths back.

"I'm not sure. But I'm not taking any chances. Get dressed."

As Mirana complies, Alice slips on her gauntlets and buckles her knives around her ankles, then wraps her sword and dirk belts across her hips. She hands the queen a pair of slippers – for stealth – and waits while she puts them on. Then Alice gives the queen her boots, each with a thick stocking stuffed inside, and motions for her to follow.

Again, Alice listens at the door. Wishing she'd brought some oil with her for the hinges, she decides to simply open the door as quickly as possible. Either someone is waiting on the other side – in which case they might be surprised enough to give her an advantage – or there is no imminent danger after all.

_Or they'll hear the squeal of the hinges and come running..._

But what other options do they have? The window is far too small to evacuate through easily and the drop is over three meters...

And then the clatter comes again from overhead: claws on the wooden shingles; the susurrus _whoosh!_ of large feathers beating the air.

Beside her, Mirana freezes. Alice glances over her shoulder and the queen mouths, "Jubjub."

Yes, the _last _time they'd encountered the Jubjub bird, the occasion had not been an amicable one. Mirana doesn't look as if she expects this instance to be, either. With a nod, Alice draws her sword – mindful of the narrow halls but unable to choose anything less that her most formidable weapon, especially now that the threat has been confirmed.

Heart pounding, she reaches for the door latch.

Just when her fingers touch the handle, it hits her.

The pounding, racing, _screaming!_ of her heart.

_**NO, not NOW!**_

Alice grits her teeth and struggles to calm her inexplicable, daily attack of panic.

"Alice?" Mirana breathes in her ear.

Alice holds up a hand and concentrates on _not _dropping her sword. She counts off the regular rhythm of her heartbeats in her head, hoping it will have _some _influence over the thunderous, frantic terror that she doesn't feel but which somehow forces her body to experience: _one... two-three... one... two-three! ONE... TWO-THREE!_

A minute passes, perhaps, and the technique seems to be working. Well enough for Alice to think over the rush of her blood and the hammering against her sternum. She swallows back her unease and forces herself to _think _before she opens the door: If someone is waiting to attack them in the hall – which remains scarily silent – will Alice be capable of defending Mirana?

With a fleeting thought as to what a mad hatter might do in this situation, Alice carefully returns to the queen's bed and gathers up her billowing white travel dress. Alice returns to the door and, holding the voluminous gown in one hand and her sword in the other, she gulps down another wave of dizziness and nods for Mirana to grab a hold of the door latch.

"As fast as you can," she whispers. The queen nods.

Taking position on the other side of the door, Alice draws a breath – not too deep or it'll upset her already rollicking-and-rolling stomach – and nods.

Mirana throws open the door. Alice spares the briefest of thoughts to the minimal squeak that the hinges utter – more like a gasp than a shriek – and then pivots into the hall, flailing the dress before her. If any attackers had been waiting with weapons poised, the sudden movement would have startled them or drawn their immediate attack.

However...

Nothing happens.

Alice gingerly slides into the hall, staying low and surveys the corridor. It's utterly silent, completely empty.

And, at this hour, with the sunlight beginning to turn a rosy-gold, it _shouldn't __**be!**_

Still keeping hold of the dress in her left hand and the sword in her right, Alice once again nods for Mirana, who joins her in the gloomy passageway. Although Alice doesn't instruct her to, the queen follows her steps as closely as possible, managing to avoid the same creaky boards that Alice does.

At the next door – Fenruffle's – Alice pauses, listens, then – fitting her sword in the thin crack between the door and its frame – with a twist of her wrist, breaks the lock. She pushes open the door quickly and finds the gryphon sound asleep in his bed. Motioning for Mirana to follow her, they approach the bed. Alice hands Mirana her traveling dress, then pulls the pillow out from under his head and squashes it over his beak.

"Fenruffle! It's Alice!" she hisses as he thrashes beneath the blankets.

She lifts the pillow when her words calm him.

"What is it?" he hisses back.

"There's a Jubjub bird on the roof. Neither the innkeeper nor his family have arrived yet. And there's someone out there in the forest."

"Someone?" His beady eyes narrow.

"Someone_s_."

He considers this for a moment, looking over at the queen, in Alice's garb, and Alice still in her pajamas but now armed to the teeth. "What can I do?"

The foreign panic that makes her heart pound clashes with her own anxiety and Alice struggles with a wave of nausea as it crests like a swelling wave at sea. "Can you fly with Mirana?"

"Not and out-distance a Jubjub," he replies bluntly.

Alice nods then gestures for the traveling gown. "Then take this, hold it like you're carrying the queen, fly as fast as you can, try not to follow a straight path. Hopefully, the Jubjub will follow you..."

"And you and the queen?"

Alice grits her teeth against the taste of bile. "I'd rather not say just in case you're..."

"Captured. I see." He considers the situation. "In the event that this is a false alarm, where will I meet you?"

"A league back, by the Tumtum grove we passed."

He nods.

Backing away from the bed, Alice whispers, "Give us ten minutes, then find a place to launch yourself from and _go!_"

"Understood."

Alice cautiously returns to the hall and proceeds toward the barrack-style room where their guard had been boarded. Again, Alice breaks the lock with her sword and, staying low, pushes open the door. The smell hits her instantly and she can't hold back the urge to vomit, which she does rather spectacularly all over the wooden floor. She feels a pair of hands on her arm and allows Mirana to drag her back into the hall and away from the open door.

"What...?" Alice gags.

"Essence of Mogra Mushroom," Mirana says. "A strong sleeping agent."

As Alice struggles to settle her stomach and get her frantic heartbeat under better control, Mirana thinks aloud, "Last night, you, I, and Fenruffle didn't touch the Grobbenale. It might have been put in there. The stench only becomes noticeable after reacting with alcohol for several hours, so we wouldn't have smelled it at dinner..."

_Fantastic,_ Alice thinks. Someone had intentionally tried to poison the lot of them and had managed to eliminate their main offensive weapon – the Queen's Guard. And not only _that_, they've managed to surround the inn, waiting for the light to improve before moving in at their leisure and killing every single one of them. Alice closes her eyes and winces, thinking of the soldiers she's going to have to leave behind to whatever fate befalls them. She cannot protect them all and it is her _duty_ to protect the queen first and foremost.

"Right," Alice says, pushing against the wall to gain her feet. "Let's find a way out." Fenruffle will be making his move soon and Alice had better be ready to take advantage of the distraction.

Alice leads Mirana down the stairs to the first level which is as eerily deserted as the second floor and the kitchen beyond the backdoor. Recalling the existence of a storm cellar door in the yard, Alice leads Mirana to a stand of Grobbenale barrels and motions for her to crouch down. Quickly, Alice inspects the breezeway – empty – and locates the door to the cellar. She stares into the perfect blackness and wishes she had another idea, but she doesn't. If she tries to escape with the queen out the front door, they'll be caught before they can make it across the road and into the forest beyond (which may or may not be hosting more mysterious shadows and the bodies that wear them!) but if they venture out the backdoor and into the yard, they'll attract the attention of the ones that are most definitely waiting in the woods. She thinks of the Bandersnatch but knows she and the queen will never make it to the stables... and then he might be just as drugged useless as the Queen's Guard!

_There are no __**good **__choices! _Alice fumes and descends the stairs.

The cellar is nearly completely dark. A few beams of light filter through the cracks in the outside door but Alice senses no one's gaze, hears no one's breath, and – miracle of miracles – the smell of the earth around her is starting to settle her stomach.

If only it would do something about her pounding heart!

She inspects the lock and, satisfied that a good chop of her sword will break it, Alice returns, collects the queen, and leads her down the stairs. Crouching beneath the cellar's outer door, she positions her blade and instructs the queen:

"When we hear Fenruffle take off, I'll break the lock and push open the doors. You will _run as __**fast**_ _as you possibly __**can**_ and find _**shelter**_ as soon as you reach the other side of the road."

Alice glances down and notices that the queen has put her boots on.

"Good," she says, simply.

"Alice..." Mirana whispers.

"Do _not _worry about me. Everything will be _fine._"

The queen nods. Alice positions herself beneath the door. A minute passes... and then another... and then...

_**CRASH!**_

Alice doesn't waste time wondering which window Fenruffle had chosen to knock out. She slashes the lock and throws open the doors just as the horrible spine-shattering shriek of the Jubjub rips through the air. Mirana grabs hold of Alice's belt and they stumble into the front yard.

Alice reaches back and latches onto Mirana's wrist with her left hand as they hurtle toward the gloomy woods. She doesn't see anything moving in the shadowed realm of the forest ahead of them. Dare she hope that their enemy hadn't bothered to cover this side of the road? Dare she hope they hadn't expected the queen to attempt escape over such a wide expanse of open ground? Dare she hope that they'll make it beneath the sheltering boughs unnoticed?

A shout goes up.

The sound of pounding feet join Alice's pounding heart.

She pulls Mirana across the road, leaps over a Thrambleberry bush, and keeps going. Branches whip against her face, snag her hair, debris tries to trip her feet, but they keep moving. The pace is the only thing that keeps Alice's dizziness and nausea from catching up to her again as her heart races in earnest, all on its own, with no inexplicable assistance.

Alice evaluates tree after tree, boulder after boulder, searching for a place to defend her queen from, for they cannot run indefinitely! She can hear Mirana's labored, gasping breaths. The queen stumbles every few steps – despite the lack of skirts and petticoats to get in her way – and Alice has to yank her up again and again.

But there _are _no good defensible features in the forest! Hating her choices, Alice finally pushes Mirana into another thicket of Thrambleberries and makes the decision to hide _above _her, in the boughs of a weathered, gnarled beast of a tree.

She swings herself up into the leafy boughs just as something crashes through the forest on her right. Spotting Bayne, she signals for him to get under cover, which – luckily – he does. And then...

In front of her, from the direction they'd just come, a dozen – _a dozen!_ – armed soldiers move through the forest. Alice damns Mirana's insistence on having every blasted scrap of clothing worn in her presence be made of the palest of colors. Surely, this motley assortment of creatures – tigers, hyenas, bears, and (_Is that...? No..._) what even resembles a mad hatter so closely Alice almost calls out to him, but she doesn't. She watches the beings move through the forest, unnerved at the sight of the first Outlander she's seen aside from Tarrant, and endeavors to be as unnoticeable as possible.

A rustle deeper in the forest catches their attention.

_Who...?_ Alice thinks and instant before she catches sight of a long, brown hound's tail. Her heart sinks as Bayard – for Bayne is still hiding behind her – lures the creatures deeper into the forest and away from Mirana.

Feeling sick to her stomach all over again, Alice surveys the forest, waits for the enemy's forces to crash off after their prey, then leaps to the ground and pulls Mirana up and out of her hiding place. The queen has two hands cupped over her mouth to silence her panicked gasps.

"What do we do now?" Bayne whines softly, casting a worried gaze in the direction in which his father had disappeared.

"We get out of here," Alice says. Hoping that Bayard will be leading the rag-tag band of fighters further into the forest, Alice decides to head straight for Mamoreal. "Stay on our flank, out of sight," she orders Bayne who is far better camouflaged than either Alice or the queen. "If we are surrounded, it will be _your _responsibility to get back to Mamoreal and raise the Queen's Army to come to our aid. Understood?"

He nods. "My dad...?"

"You have to trust him to take care of himself," Alice replies, urging the queen to get moving. "He's trusting you to do the same."

And so they move as quickly as they dare, making as little noise as they can. Alice wishes for Bandy – or even that pampered twit of a horse! – but they have neither. Alice only hopes they're both still alive: perhaps startled awake by the Jubjub and on their way back to Mamoreal or distracting the queen's foes. But she cannot think about them right now!

_Protect the queen!_

Getting home to Tarrant is a whisper at the back of her mind, but she squashes it ruthlessly. She cannot allow her attention to be divided or...

_Snap!_

Alice reacts to the sudden sound behind them. She shoves the queen down to the forest floor, turns – sword raised – and counts them:

One... two... three... four... five...!

And those are only the ones she can see.

Dismayed, Alice realizes she is facing yet another Jabberwocky. Although she had not sought out _this _battle, she knows it's not one she can win. The question is: does she fight anyway, knowing both that there is no help coming and that she cannot possibly win on her own?

In her peripheral vision, more creatures step out from behind the trees, encircling them. Alice hopes that Bayne has slipped by; if he doesn't reach the castle...!

Alice doesn't shift her pose. She wonders if she can possibly drag this moment out long enough – stop time! – until the army arrives. It's a crazy idea. Impossible. She wishes she had chosen it as one of her six impossible things today, but she hadn't.

She struggles to stay calm, to keep her breathing regular and her heartbeat level and steady. But she faces a fear unlike anything she's ever encountered before. The Jabberwocky had been predictable and mindless in its hostility and efficient in its attempts to kill her. She cannot say the same for these mercenaries.

"Pu'down th'sword, lass," a tall Outlander says. The brogue – so familiar, yet so utterly _wrong_ – renews her nausea and panic. "Ye cannae win agains'tall o'us."

"But I can kill at least _one_," she growls around her fear. "Who do you nominate?"

A few of the hunters chuckle, but it's too gloomy under the thick canopy of the aged trees to see their expressions.

"W'd'nae inten'teh'urt ye."

"But you will, nonetheless," Alice challenges.

"O'ly if ye insist," the Outlander replies.

Briefly, Alice considers her options. She wishes she were in a position to demand their word on that! The Fates of Underland would surely punish them if they broke their vow! But they might prefer to rush her and chance the death of one of their own comrades to ensure hers. What she needs is to buy _time!_

Sending a silent apology to Mirana, still crouched on the forest floor where Alice had thrown her, Alice replies, throat burning with impotent rage, "_None of you _will touch the queen. I will _keep _all of my weapons in my possession and we will accompany you peaceably!"

"Tha' 'tis all we ask."

And then, out of the corner of her eye, Alice sees a dark shape arcing toward her, fast – _so fast! _– and, in the one moment she has, Alice realizes that she hadn't demanded protection for herself.

The pang of regret is fleeting as, in the very next instant, a fist slams into the side of her face. She thinks she keeps her grip on her sword as she falls, but as darkness closes in around her, she can't be sure.

* * *

Late-ish morning light is sharply slanting through the kitchen windows that face Witzend and the west when Tarrant opens his eyes.

"He's alive!" Thackery jibbers, waving frantically.

"Thank the Fates," Chessur sighs, appearing over Tarrant's face. "How are you feeling? Can you stand?"

"Never mind _that_," Mally cuts in. "Can you _rhyme?_"

"Aye, make a rhyme for us, Hatter!" Thackery demands.

Tarrant stares dazedly up at the vaulted ceiling and murmurs, "Spring waxes and Iplam waves, the silver flower her hand displays..." He frowns, considering the odd phrase he'd unthinkingly uttered.

"Oh, well done!" the dormouse enthuses. "You're all right, then!"

Thackery celebrates by sprinkling a fistful of trump card confetti over him.

Slowly, Tarrant sits up and winces at the stiffness in his back – how long had he been lying on the floor? – and the act of wincing brings to his attention a curious throbbing on the left side of his face. Rubbing his cheek, he glares at the table and bench.

Yes, when he'd... well, that is to say, when he'd _fallen_ he must have... yes, against the edge of the table or...

And that's when he notices the very _inconvenient_ fact that he's still dressed in his night clothes.

_Brangergain i'tall!_

Sighing, Tarrant pulls himself up with the aid of the cheek-smashing table edge of dubious loyalty.

"Finally deciding on that bath are you?" Chessur drawls.

Tarrant ignores him, adjusts his bathrobe to drape _properly_ over his chest, and executes a graceful exit. Yes, he thinks, a bath _is _a good idea. After all, Alice will be back soon and he'd rather not subject her to... well, not that he'd expect her to want to... she'll be tired after all, from her journey, but just in case... that is, if she'd like... well, what he means is...

Tarrant gives himself an abrupt shake and gets on with it, doing his best to keep Alice's preferences regarding their reunion completely abstract in his mind.

The very thought of returning to the castle kitchens – again! – makes him nauseous, but where else will he go? If he stays in the apartment much longer, he'll start wondering if he ought to turn down the bed or put candles out or perhaps some of those Thrambleberries she loves so much...

Right. Kitchen.

Of course, he _could _go to his workshop, he supposes. And there he could... stare at the bolts of fabric, rolls of ribbon, and spools of thread that resemble the various shades of her hair, her skin, her eyes, her lips...

_Kitchen!_

"What took you so long?" Mally shouts when he returns, finally dressed for the day despite the fact that it's well past lunchtime. "Hit your head pretty hard there, Hatter? Lost your way back down?"

"Lost his head!" Thackery agrees.

Calmly, Tarrant wanders over to the bench and gracefully takes a seat.

Chessur grins. "It's nice to finally see you in all your layers, Tarrant."

He sniffs, not deigning to reply, and reaches for a crumpet.

The sudden _BANG!_ of a distant door being thrown open startles him. Tarrant pushes himself up off of the bench he'd just sat himself upon and smiles hopefully at the kitchen door. He hears the sounds of movement – of running – drawing nearer and nearer and nearer yet!

_Perhaps it's his Alice! Returned at last!_

He dares to hope his Alice has returned but something – some heretofore unidentified sense – insists otherwise. He doesn't want to listen to it, so he faces the kitchen door (with a wide smile on his face – just in case!) as it's thrown open.

Tarrant examines the new arrival – twice, just to be sure! – but it's not Alice. Not of any size! No this creature looks far too much like Bayne, Bayard's bravest and most responsible son. Remembering why the sight of Bayto had so alarmed him eight days ago, Tarrant feels his smile droop into a fearsome scowl. His hands tremble as he asks in an unsteady lisp, "Where is Alice?"

Panting, Bayne manages, "Gone. Taken. Both she and the queen. Can't find Dad... Fenruffle was wounded by the Jubjub... And the queen's soldiers..."

In the doorway, Nivens appears and gapes at the young blood hound.

At the table, Thackery throws the teapot toward the rubbish bin.

On the bench, Mally unsheathes her hatpin and declares war.

From the air, Chessur begins interrogating the breathless messenger.

But Tarrant... Tarrant doesn't hear anything past: _Gone... Taken._ And when the madness comes and wraps his mind up in its irresistible, hot embrace, he doesn't fight it.

* * *

[End of Chapter 3]


	45. Book 2, A Prince's Champion, 1 of 4

_**Chapter Four: A Prince's Champion**_ [Scene 1 of 4]

The first thing Alice sees when she opens her eyes is Mirana.

"Alice? Are you all right?"

She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a moment to make sure there aren't any aches – aside from the obvious ones – waiting to ambush her now that she can properly appreciate them. When none clamor for her attention, Alice nods and slowly rolls over onto her side and gingerly sits up on a surprisingly comfortable bed in an equally surprisingly luxurious room. She raises a hand to her face and wonders how badly it has bruised.

"I was permitted to apply a bit of Pain Paste... inferior though it was. Yes, using Bread-and-butterfly wing dust is _more readily available,_ but it only addresses the numbing properties and..." Mirana gives Alice an apologetic look. "I'm afraid you look..."

"Like a thoroughly thwumpished Champion?" Alice suggests, daring a bit of Outlandish for the occasion.

Mirana nearly laughs. "Precisely."

"I'm sorry about earlier. I should have –"

"Yes, I would have liked it if you'd included yourself in those to be kept unharmed, but as we are both still alive – and keeping each other company! – I can't fault you too badly."

"You're too generous, Your Majesty," Alice insists darkly. "It's a miracle we're both still alive and speaking to each other at all. I nearly got us both –"

"Do you not believe in impossible things as part of your breakfast regime?"

Alice snorts. "If I'd remembered to do that _this morning,_ I could have believed we'd have made back to –"

"But that wouldn't have been impossible... under normal circumstances, so you wouldn't have thought to believe in it."

"But –"

"Shush, Alice."

"Will you at _least _stop interrupting me?" she grumbles.

Mirana manages a lukewarm smile. "Queen's prerogative."

Alice huffs. "I suppose it is." Then she slides a wry glance at the queen. "I notice you don't bother when I'm agreeing with you."

And there, Alice finally wrings a helpless, breathy – if slightly hysterical – giggle from her sovereign.

Shaking her head, Mirana sighs. "Oh, Alice. You're nearly as mad as... Well, not many people would be trying to add humor to our situation."

"Could do with a bit of humor. To balance out the hopeless depression and angst." The gurgle of an empty stomach punctuates that observation.

"Have they fed you anything?" Alice asks.

"Well... They left something for us, but..." The glance Mirana sends the tray is significant.

Standing, Alice approaches the bowls of now-congealed stew and sniffs. "Is that... mint?"

"A variety of," the queen confirms. "Sweet to the taste."

"And it's effects?"

Mirana reluctantly replies, "It's meant to make us more... amiable to suggestion."

"So... nothing good, in other words."

The queen tilts her head in agreement. "I thought it best to abstain until we were introduced to our host."

"You assume it's a man."

Mirana glances pointedly around the room. "The view from the window is what I would expect to see were I in the heart of Causwick Callion."

"Causwick... The swamp that lies near..."

"The western border of Snud. This is the territory under the protection of a certain Prince Jaspien, you may recall?" the queen concludes, her rising intonation inquiring if Alice does, indeed, remember her Underland geography lessons correctly.

"I don't like the sound of that."

"That makes two of us."

Closing her eyes, Alice asks the question that is – perhaps – the most pertinent to their current predicament: "What do you think they want with you?"

Mirana gives Alice a long look. "I do not know, but..." When the queen hesitates for far too long, Alice cannot resist opening her eyes and taking in the worry she sees in Mirana's gaze. "They did not leave _you _behind, either. Even though..."

Yes, even though they'd already secured Mirana's surrender.

The fact that they'd brought Alice along could merely mean they had hoped capture would neutralize her and disable any truly competent rescue attempts on the queen. It doesn't _necessarily _mean that Prince Jaspien has some nefarious purpose in mind for her! Still...

Her hands curl into fists and Alice crosses to the room's single window to take stock of their surroundings. There's no balcony, no ledge of any kind beneath the opening in the grey, stone wall. And the glass is thick, impure and pebbled with un-dissolved sand. She can barely see anything out there in the twilight. She turns and investigates the room. Aside from the space under the bed, there is nowhere to hide. And, unfortunately, the bed skirt had been removed and the bed itself had been raised on a platform – from the doorway one would clearly be able to see whether or not someone were attempting to hide beneath it.

Alice doesn't tell Mirana not to worry. She doesn't say that someone will come for them soon. Unfortunately, Alice can only think of two people who would dare, and she knows Mirana wants to contemplate her prince rushing to face danger just as much as Alice wants to consider her Hatter in the same role.

No, it's best they don't try to cheer themselves with thoughts of rescue.

Escape, on the other hand...

"If you have the chance to run, take it," Alice says.

Mirana slumps down on the rumpled bed. "I heard dogs earlier."

"Blood hounds?" Alice asks, hopeful in spite of her pessimism. One of those baying calls might have belonged to Bayard, which would mean...

"Dobermans."

Alice releases the curtain she'd pulled back, giving up on dreams of daylight and freedom. For now.

"How are you, Mirana?" she asks softly, her gaze lingering on the queen's throat, which is bare. "Where's...? What's happened to the...?"

The queen closes her eyes and sighs. "At the inn, presumably. Perhaps my snoring managed to unravel the knot in the cord." Alice continues staring until the queen opens her eyes and answers her first question. "I can still feel him, a bit, but he's so far away..."

"Does it hurt you?"

"No. No, I'm fine, Alice. Truly."

Rather than argue or press for details, Alice says instead, "It's nearly dinnertime."

"Yes, I suppose they'll be back to try to ply us with more Hafflaffen-laced edibles."

Alice doesn't look forward to that. But she wonders what might be gained by trying to avoid confronting their captor. On the one hand, any time they can manage to waste before actually being forced to start negotiating their safety might be time well-spent. But, on the other, the longer they remain in this room, the more likely a rescue party _will _be coming for them and _that _could end... very badly. Perhaps their best chance is to attempt to secure a promise for their release from the castle's liege. Still... Alice has so many nightmarish visions of what could happen during that meeting... and with Mirana being utterly unable to raise a hand in her own defense...

She shivers.

"Alice?"

"I could..." Alice bites her lip to stop the words.

"What? What horrible thought are you thinking, my Champion?"

Wincing, Alice says, "If you'd rather put off the conversation that's probably coming – the victory I-have-you-now! speech, I mean – I could... guarantee that you're unconscious when someone comes..."

Mirana stares at her for a long moment. "You... would do that?"

"If that's what you wanted, Your Majesty. I've promised to protect you to the best of my abilities. Your vows don't allow you to defend yourself. If the only defense I can give you is unconsciousness..."

The queen considers the option. "Would you recommend that?"

"I can't recommend anything knowledgably," she replies, feeling utterly useless, unnecessary, and unhelpful.

"Would it be easier for you if I were... indisposed?"

Alice forces herself to seriously consider what it would mean for her if that situation were to come to pass and weighs each word of her reply carefully. "Instead of worrying that you were being forced to endure something unpleasant, I would merely hope you would be ignorant to whatever unfortunate things might happen in my absence." _Or inability to interfere._ "So... no, it would not be easier. Simply a different set of worries."

"Still, sometimes it's advantageous to have a different set... in the event that one grows weary of bearing the same ones over and over again."

"Is there anything you can offer in exchange for your release or – failing that – your safety?" Alice asks, perhaps a tad bluntly.

Mirana appears to give the question thorough consideration. "There are some assets I would be able to part with – lands and tribute that are within my rights to give away as I see fit. Other things... are bound to my crown and, as such..."

"Would have to be taken by force," Alice finishes.

"But we do have one advantage," Mirana rebuts.

Alice raises her eyebrows in question.

"We're women!" the queen proclaims. "Contrary, indecisive, often-times hesitant, fickle creatures of inexplicable logic!"

Alice snorts. "I think I'm a bit out of practice..."

"Don't worry," Mirana replies. "For _I_, most assuredly, _am __**not**__!_"

Alice's brows raise.

Mirana smiles broadly. "It's your turn to stand down, my Champion, and let the one who got rather good marks – if I do say so myself – in Resolving Disputes with Temperamental Despots to do her worst!"

Alice chuckles, but her heart isn't in it. She's busy thinking about this new game she'll have to play. The one she'd practiced with the Red Queen: deception. Mirana will do her best, certainly, but a woman like the queen can only affect a heart if the man still carries one in his chest. And Alice has met _many_ in recent years – and a few in recent months – that had appeared to possess no such organ at all.

Only time – and the whims of their captor – will tell if the queen's strategy will be enough to save them.

* * *

[End Chapter 4: Scene 1 of 4]


	46. Book 2, A Prince's Champion, 2 of 4

_**Chapter Four: A Prince's Champion**_ [Scenes 2 of 4]

Even madness must run its course.

Tarrant knows this highly unfortunate fact. He resents the end of the roaring rage and blessedly blank mind. Only empty chairs, broken teacups, a steady downpour, and _guilt-shame-embarrassment-fear-dread!_ have ever greeted him when he emerges into his own mind again, opens his eyes to the world again, _lives _again.

Yes, bothersome thing: _living._ Much to be done, to get done, to have done. So, it's no surprise he hates that moment of re-awareness even more than he hates the moment that had spawned the madness itself. For, in madness, he might do _anything_. In fact, he might address the very wrong that had pushed him so far outside himself that he no longer feels pain or pleasure or past or present.

There's oblivion in that hot darkness. There's a blind strength, too. The potential to conquer all and then awaken to a once-again-_normal_ reality. One in which only good things exist, where the tea service is intact and in use instead of filling with rainwater, one plinking-plopping-plunking droplet at a time. A reality in which he's surrounded by friends instead of failure.

But _this time_... When Tarrant blinks open his eyes and _sees_ what awaits him, the disappointment is immeasurably _worse_ than slowly-filling china cups of rainwater tea. What Tarrant sees is a white rabbit tending to a barely-bandaged and still-bleeding gryphon, a gaggle of still-lanky-limbed blood hounds whining mournfully, Mally ordering the crockery into battle formation and Thackery shouting suggestions in between trying to apply broken corners of scones to the worst of Fenruffle's scrapes.

And what Tarrant _feels _are arms – as long as his own, as strong as his own – holding him down in one ruined corner of the kitchen.

_Alice's arms are thinner, weaker, softer_, he thinks.

Tarrant closes his eyes and bites back the utter **B****lackness **that tries to climb out of his chest by way of his throat, for he knows there is _no_ chance of these arms transforming into Alice's.

_Alice is __**gone**__... __**Taken**__._

Tarrant opens his eyes, narrows them, allows the slow, relentless, simmering burn of eternal _**RAGE!**_ to take over his every fiber of being: _someone _has **his Alice!**

_And may the Fates pity that __**slurking urpal SLACKUSH SCRUM!**_

Because Tarrant certainly won't. A hatter, without his _Alice_ knows no bounds, no forgiveness... _no mercy._

Tarrant looks down at his hands, fisted and clenched in the plum-colored jacket sleeves of a shape-shifting cat, and examines them quite deliberately: they're the hands of a future murder. With the addition of another thimble, he thinks they'll do quite nicely...

"Hatter?"

"Cat-With-Evaporating-Skills?"

Behind him, Chessur releases a relieved breath. "At _last! _I've had a cramp in my left buttock for over ten minutes!"

"Then you'd best deal with it. A cramp in one's scut is something requiring immediate attention," Tarrant replies, smiling without any rancor at all.

A moment later, when the teaspoon Mally is trying to balance upright on its end falls over with a resounding clatter, Tarrant realizes that every occupant in the kitchen has gone completely, totally, absolutely silent. Looking up with a puzzled frown, Tarrant finds that each and every pair of eyes in the room are focused on him. Leisurely, he stares back. One frightened face after another passes inspection until Tarrant is sure of it: they are all – each and every one of them – **terrified**... _of him._

And they have reason to be, Tarrant allows. For a _normal _Hatter would have screamed and raged and thrown things and broken furniture and tried to charge out the door to rescue _his Alice_. The pleasant, calm, _sympathetic _man they now find in their midst is a never-before-identified specimen of unpredictability.

Grinning, Tarrant says, "Cup of Throeston Blend, Chessur? It's helped me on occasion when that particular ailment strikes." He moves to the table and begins considering the remaining crockery, looking for something to serve as a teapot.

Thackery gulps, quivers, and tries to hide behind the corner of a scone he's yet to find a home for. Mally dives behind the pitcher of cream. The pups hover behind their mother and eye the door warily. Nivens, bandages in hand, has become a statue of quivering fur. Even Fenruffle – that useless excuse for a feathered hat who has constantly lectured Tarrant on _staying away from __**his Alice WHILE SHE'S WORKING!**_ – hardly dares to breathe.

"Have you tried the crumpets," Tarrant asks the gryphon solicitously. "They're Thackery's specialty."

"Fates save us..." Nivens whispers hoarsely.

"Aye..." Thackery grunts, a spasm of panic coming and going now and again.

From the middle of the table, Mally raises her hatpin sword and shouts, "_WELL? WHAT'RE WE WAITIN' FOR? HE AIN'T GETTIN' ANY MADDER!_"

Fates of Underland help them all if he does...

"Right," Bayelle says with characteristic decisiveness. "Climb aboard, Mally. Let us be off to pick up the trail."

"Ar," Mally agrees. "Fight first, plan later!" Then launches herself from the still-suspect-of-smashing-perfectly-peaceable-faces table edge and snags the ring on Bayelle's collar.

Tarrant giggles and tucks a butter knife into his pocket for the journey.

"Er... well, perhaps I'd better... accompany you," Nivens allows.

"Pishalver!" Thackery demands, scrambling over to the queen's hands-paws-whispers-teeth-claws-intentions-OFF! cupboard and ransacks its contents. "Lost it!" he says, tucking a bottle into an inner pocket of his vest. "Nauw we're ready teh find th'wee bessom!"

"Indeed," Tarrant muses mildly, "what if Alice were too _big _to be rescued? How inconvenient _that _would be!"

"Wrong size Alice!" the March Hare concurs.

"Bad habit, that," Tarrant remarks.

"Always late for tea!" Thackery adds, expounding on Alice's faults.

Hesitantly, Nivens whispers aside, "Fenruffle, would you...?"

"The Queen's Army will be right behind you," he promises, keeping his dark, beady eyes on Tarrant. "Along with anything else you might be needing."

Tarrant ignores the suspicious glare and advises his companions, "Pack a tea bag, for we may invent a table and pick some cups along the road! They're in season, you know."

"A rhyme!" Thackery sighs, twitching.

And then Bayelle applies her formidable nose to the ground and, baying, leads the charge.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4: Scene 2]


	47. Book 2, A Prince's Champion, 3 of 4

_**Chapter Four: A Prince's Champion**_ [Scene 3 of 4]

The next morning, when Alice awakens, she wakes to the nightmare she'd fallen asleep to escape. In the perfect gloom of the small, servant's room, Alice stares up in the general direction of the low, stone ceiling she can't see in the windowless chamber and fights against her despair. Which only worsens with every recalled memory:

"The fact of the matter is, Queen Mirana, that we – that is, _I _– require a Champion. And yours is quite... impressive," Prince Jaspien had announced suddenly over the Mock Turtle soup course.

"Yes, Alice has not only defeated the Jabberwocky, but she's remained undefeated ever since," Viscount Valereth had complimented. Despite the praise, the words had turned Alice's stomach.

"Indeed, poor Stayne. Someone should have warned the blighter you'd go to _any_ lengths to win." Oshtyer's voice echoes in Alice's thoughts. She wishes she could wash out her mind.

Shivering, Alice closes her eyes, knowing the worst is yet to come:

"You... are asking me to release Alice from her vows of fealty?" Mirana had asked, wonderingly.

Despite the utter disaster of an evening it had been, the queen had been utterly brilliant: charming weak smiles and warm-ish glances from Jaspien, making an ally of the taciturn and unimaginative man.

Valereth had been completely unaffected; Alice knows his kind – concerned only with business and, it appears, that Valereth's business is _war_.

Oshtyer... No, Mirana had not been able to reach Oshtyer. Alice doubts he can speak a language that's not laced with domination and hostility.

"Yes, Mirana," Jaspien had replied. "I would like offer Alice a position as my Champion. It would be... _best_ for you if you were to release her voluntarily."

Oshtyer had snickered. "You always insist on ruining a man's fun... sir."

"You would force me?" Mirana had asked, disbelieving and looking every bit the lost and frightened heroine.

"No," Valereth had answered harshly. "We will kill you." For that would work just as well – Alice would be free of her vows then.

"I would offer you my protection, Mirana, if you were to cooperate with us on this matter," Jaspien had offered stiffly, but sincerely.

"I... see."

And, at this point, Alice had gathered her courage and had dared to speak for the first time since the beginning of dinner:

"Your Majesty, you know you don't have much use for me. It's been rather... well, _dull_ since that middling excuse for a man crawled his way to Mamoreal and petitioned your hand."

Mirana had turned and given Alice a searching look. "That's true..." she'd replied slowly. "And I _do_ know how much you enjoy a fight..."

Alice had smiled and, seeking to secure Mirana's position with Jaspien – who clearly hoped to win her over – Alice had dared a bit more: "Thank you for conceding to the trip to Shuchland, Your Majesty. Receiving instruction in their..." Alice had glanced across the table and _smirked_ at Oshtyer. "... _unique_ weaponry was quite the opportunity. Perhaps our Prince Jaspien could offer other..." And this glance she'd sent at Valereth. "... _profitable_ lessons."

For a long moment, the queen and the three former (or perhaps _not _so former) suitors, had regarded Alice in silence. She had struggled to keep her expression bland, but interested.

"Alice..." the queen had begun.

Oshtyer had interrupted: "You expect us to believe that you'd _willingly _fight for the prince even with _that _on your arm?" He'd nodded to her heart line.

And then Alice had done something so unforgivable she'd nearly broken right there.

"This... _heart line_?" she'd sneered. "As Queen's Champion, I am required to acquiesce to my liege's requests."

"I... am sorry I required it of you, Alice. We simply couldn't be sure how staying in Underland for so long might affect you..." Mirana had murmured, her eyes shining with sympathetic understanding but Alice had been sure these men would not recognize it. They would think it to be shame or perhaps pity.

"It matters not now," Alice had replied with a shrug, dismissing the entire ordeal. "That is, _if _I'm to be a _true_ Champion?"

Valereth had smiled. "Yes, Alice, we will offer you far better opportunities to utilize your skills than wooing duels."

Alice had grinned, had forced a glimmer of anticipation into her eyes, and then she'd turned to Mirana who, with a look of heartbreaking sorrow, had replied, "If this is what you wish, Alice...?"

_Wish?_ No. Most certainly _not._ Alice had _wished _to be in her bed at Mamoreal in the arms of her _Hatter_. But _that _had been an impossibility. So, Alice had **chosen** to save Mirana's life, which would now be protected by Prince Jaspien's vow. Alice had **had** to betray Tarrant, who would be a target of violence or abduction if either Valereth or Oshtyer thought they could use threats against him to ensure her cooperation. Alice had **needed** to buy _time _so that they both might find a way _out of this __**hell.**_ What Alice had _wanted _– what she had _wished _– hadn't **mattered**. This had been _**necessary.**_

"It is," Alice had told her without hesitation or fear.

"Then... I, Mirana of Mamoreal, do hereby release you, Alice Kingsleigh, from my service... from this moment henceforth."

_And now I am Jaspien's Champion..._

Alice blinks back the rush of hot tears. Crying will accomplish nothing but show weakness. If she shows weakness now, that will be the end of it. She _needs _these bastards to trust her. She _needs _these cowardly, pathetic creatures to give her enough rope – enough slack on the leash – so that she might choke them with it!

Her hands fist in the rough linens.

_You must __**become**_ _them.,._

There's nothing she wants less.

_Be strong. Fight. Win. __**Survive.**_

Yes, she must do those things for she had never been released from _that _promise. Very carefully, she does not think of to _whom _she had made it. No, in this new horror her life has become, she cannot think of _any _friends at all. In this new life, she is a woman who _has __**no **__friends._ She is a Champion who lives – breathes! – to fight, to conquer, to...

Alice closes her eyes and forces herself to think the last word:

_Kill._

She'd saved the queen, but she isn't naïve enough to assume that Fate will not demand a life in exchange. Perhaps it will be her own. Perhaps it will be her hand that takes someone else's.

_Be prepared, Alice!_

She spends her remaining time in the perfect darkness of the room considering this new person she will be, the motivations that will drive her, the inclinations that will shape her. She builds this new Alice – Jaspien, Valereth, and (she shudders) Oshtyer's Alice. And, with every breath, she's thankful that she had never given any indication of her true self – or the object of her affections – during the Wooing Rites. If she had not appeared to be perfectly impartial, distant, and unaffected, then this strategy would have died during the soup course last night.

She has _one_ chance to make this succeed.

She must do whatever necessary to ensure that success.

_Fight. Win. Return._

Everything else is irrelevant.

When the sound of footsteps grows louder and louder in the hall beyond her door, Alice gets up from her bed and crosses the murky room. As she'd never gotten undressed the night before, never taken off her weapons, she doesn't waste time taking up a defensive position beside the door. She draws her sword and waits.

Expecting the light to blind her when the door is opened, Alice squints her eyes and keeps to the wall behind the door. There's a rattle of keys, the click of a rusty lock, and then torchlight pours into the small chamber. A shadow falls across the floor. Tall, human-looking... An Outlander.

It doesn't matter. When he steps into the room, her blade is at his throat.

"Well, a'g'mornin'teh ye, lasslin'!" he says, stopping in his tracks and grinning at her.

Alice doesn't return the greeting. "Not one foot over that threshold," she informs him. "Now step _back_, _Outlander_," she orders, spitting the last word out with disgust.

He does. His eyes widening. "M'thinks ye d'nae care f'r Outlanders much."

"Thinking? You can do that, too?" she replies.

He laughs. "Oh, aye. Walk'n'talk a'th'same time's well."

Alice lowers her sword a bit now that he's standing in the hall... alone. "The sort who enjoys a challenge," she assesses with sarcasm.

He chuckles. "'Twoul'have teh be... teh b'takin'_ye_ on."

"You'll take nothing."

He considers this with an amiable expression. "S'pose 'twoul'nae b'right f'r me teh be doin' tha'... leas'no'wi'thou' givin' ye me name firs'."

"You can give it. I won't promise to _take _it."

"Davon," he says with a grin, showing gaps in his stained, battered teeth. No doubt those missing teeth had been knocked out in one fight or brawl or another. "Tha's me name. Jus'in case ye're decidin'teh use it."

"Forgetting it as I speak," she replies.

Still grinning, Davon gestures her to proceed him down the hall. Alice draws a knife and re-sheaths her sword. "Oh, no, _laddies _first," she invites.

"Ar, ye _are_ a deligh'ful lass, Alice."

"Thank you."

She doesn't ask him to reveal their destination before they arrive – to do so would be to show anxiety and a lack of confidence in her abilities to defend herself. She keeps the knife in her left hand, rather than her right, to show she's wary but not overly afraid. It's a wise decision, in the end, for when Davon emerges from the castle into the dirt-packed, rubbish-strewn side yard, Alice's skills are put to the test at once.

Just as she steps through the doorway and into the pale light of this overcast morning, a _whoosh! _of air, a streak of motion, the blur of an object whistles in her direction. Alice raises the knife and draws her sword.

The enemy's sword crashes into her much shorter dagger blade, and Alice sets her jaw, straining against her opponent's strength. Her broadsword flashes, arcs, and she presses the tip against the figure's belly and warningly but relentlessly pushes it forward.

With a yelp, the creature – a hyena, she notices – leaps back, lowers his weapon, and rubs his stomach. "Oi, that _pinched _a bit!" he pouts.

The courtyard erupts in laughter. Stepping outside fully – for to stay in the castle would only show cowardice – Alice gives the assembled motley assortment of mercenaries an imperious stare. And then, glancing at the hyena still rubbing his stomach and, occasionally, checking to see if he'd lost any of his precious pelt, she grins and chuckles.

"Nauw, b'nice, Argur," the Outlander teases. "I ken ye still rem'mber hauw..."

"Can't blame me for being curious!" he retorts, eyeing Alice with suspicion. "It be just a slip of a thing..."

Alice stretches her lips into an overly sweet smile. "Well, you're no Jabberwocky, but if you'd like further demonstrations..." She hefts her broadsword and takes a step toward him.

Davon reaches out a hand and gestures for her to stand down. She halts, but doesn't relax her guard. He says, "Af'er th'introductions, Alice."

The crowd chuckles and guffaws. Alice stands up straight and examines the circle of, perhaps, three dozen creatures of all shapes, sizes, and origins. There are tigers, bears, more hyenas, even a badly scarred lion, and several Outlanders, none of which look nearly as friendly as Davon.

"Alice," the Outlander continues, adopting an obsequious smile and exaggerated pose of a footman charged with announcing the dinner guests. "This charmin', flea-bitten, filth-ridden beast i'called Argur Frothbreath."

"Am _not,_" the hyena spits, a string of drool escaping his grimacing lips.

"I di'nae say 'twas yer _name_, but 'tis whot ye're _called!_" Davon explains to the amusement of the crowd.

Argur growls.

"An' _this_," Davon continues, gesturing to Alice, "i'th'prince's Champion. Alice...?"

She flashes him a dark grin. "I'm sure I'll earn the rest of my name before the day's out."

Her statement is met with whistles and cheers.

Looking mightily entertained, Davon concludes, "W'shall be lookin' forward teh tha' then! Nauw, everyone all intr'duced?" When no objections are voiced or growled, the Outlander nods and pulls back his still outstretched hand. "Le'th'fight _begin!_"

Argur's eyes flash and, in the next instant, he charges Alice. She sidesteps and knocks his sword wide of its mark. The hyena doesn't lose his grip on it, though, and pivots for the next attack. Attempting to conserve her energy – who knows how many of these wretched introductions she'll be subjected to! – Alice draws him in and decides to finish this nonsense quickly.

This time, when he charges, Alice not only knocks his arm wide with the flat of her blade, but she kicks viciously at his knee and, spinning, brings both fists slamming against his lower back. Her blade is at his neck and her foot firmly planted just _there_ against his spine at the small of his back, ready to crush the bones beneath her heel. Under normal circumstances, she would _never _have considered breaking anyone's back in a fight – she wouldn't have believed herself capable of generating enough force to do so – but _this _Alice would not hesitate, would not doubt herself.

"I think I may have broken your knee, Argur," Alice tells him sweetly as surprised silence surrounds them. "Shall I put you out of your misery?" She applies a bit more pressure to the blade.

The hyena snarls and a few bubbles of froth escape the corner of his mouth.

"'Tis enough o' tha'!" Davon calls. "Either kill 'em'r le'im up, Alice."

With her nose wrinkled in disgust, Alice releases him.

"Aw, 'twas lookin' forward teh seein' tha'lump get 'is comeuppance," someone growls.

"I've no quarrel with Argur," Alice replies as the hyena stands and glares at his fellows. "Not _yet._"

Argur turns toward her and, seeing her playful – if somewhat _dark _– smile, lets out a bark of screeching laughter. The others join in and Alice forces sounds of mirth from her own mouth, even as her stomach twists, knots, and rolls.

_Remember whose Alice you are!_

And, if – by chance – the thought forces a tear out of her, she can simply blame it on the laughter.

* * *

[End Chapter 4]


	48. Book 2, A Prince's Champion, 4 of 4

_**Chapter Four: A Prince's Champion**_ [Scene 4 of 4]

Just outside the formidable walls of Causwick Castle, Tarrant Hightopp paces. Seven and three-quarters steps, pivot, eight and two-thirds steps, pivot, six and a smidgen steps, pivot...

"You're making me dizzy!" Mally whispers.

Tarrant barely hears her, for _here_ – on the other side of this cursed wall! – is his Alice. _Somewhere!_

"Ge'yer useless tail back 'ere!" he growls. How long does it take to find two women in a bloody medieval fortress? Not long, certainly. Not for a cat with evaporating skills, anyway!

"Stop this, Hatter!" Mally squeaks furiously. "They'll _see __**us!**_"

No, no they won't. They might see _Tarrant _but no one will see Mally. Not from the height of _those_ battlements.

Battlements... ah, yes, he remembers walking with his Alice, looking for the battlements at the White Queen's castle. That had been on a Saturday, after brillig. Alice had been horridly late for tea and he'd had naught to offer her when she'd arrived except his arm and a smile, which she'd taken. But, he supposes, with her tendency towards tardiness, she can't afford to be fussy over the state of the tea – cold! – and the scones – stale! – so it's just as well that—

"Any word?"

Tarrant registers Bayard's low voice, but continues pacing.

"Nuthin'!" Mally replies.

"Well, it's only been a short time..."

"What are we going to do when he gets back?" Mally wonders.

"Storm th'bloody castle," Tarrant growls.

"With a _butter knife?_" Mally reminds him.

He has to concede, "'Tis no'as good as a powder puff nor a perfume bottle, but I've fought wi'less."

"_Witless_," Mally corrects, glaring at him.

Perhaps he is. After all, he's pacing – daring to draw attention to them – along the outer wall of the enemy's castle armed with an eating utensil small enough to fit into his pocket. And there's no use thinking of his broadsword – still sheathed and leaning against the wall next to his and Alice's wardrobe back in Mamoreal...

Despite the unforgivable act that very sword gets up to in his nightmare, Tarrant knows he should have asked the Bandersnatch to fetch it for him. But when they'd arrived at the Crossroads late last night, Tarrant still hadn't quite emerged from the madness that had been buzzing through him, addling his brain. The still-woozy guards had been sent back to the castle with the crates and trunks. Alfred had stumbled along behind them, complaining of an overly warm stomach. The Bandersnatch, muddled by the same drug that had been used on the guards, had slowly and _very _grumpily sniffed out Bayard's trail until the blood hound had caught up with them and informed them of the horrible truth: Alice and the queen have disappeared behind the walls of Causwick Castle.

Tarrant has never liked that Prince Jaspien. Even before the uncoordinated twit had nearly flailed that sword right through his Alice's middle! But _this! _This **treachery**...! _This will __**NOT**_ _**go unpunished!**_

He had sworn to retrieve his Alice before dawn of the seventeenth day, but as dawn had come and gone and Alice had still not arrived – had not returned to him! – he'd stubbornly forsaken sleep. He will _not _suffer that nightmare _again!_ Not without her lying next to him. Not without having her there when he wakes up!

"Is the army not coming?" Mally whispers to Bayard. "Shouldn't you be leading them here?"

"The Bandersnatch is taking care of it," he says. "And Nivens has finally gotten Thackery to agree on a place to wait out the daylight hours. I've come to take you there."

"I'm no'leavin'," Tarrant announces, still pacing.

"It's too dangerous to remain!" Mally reminds him. "It's long past dawn!"

He doesn't care.

"Chessur will find us when he's done. He'll sniff us out. You know he will!"

Tarrant ignores that. He stops pacing, turns to the wall and presses his hands against it. He squints, glaring, as if his very will could drill through the dull stone and, finding Alice, pull her to safety.

"Now is not the time to attack. We're undoubtedly outnumbered," Bayard argues in Tarrant's direction. "We will wait for the army and Chessur's information."

"Come away now," Mally begs him.

Mally doesn't understand, he knows. She doesn't realize that he _can't _leave. Not without knowing that Alice is alive, safe, and _well_ – at least for the time being – despite what the sickening thuds of his heart are telling him.

His left hand fists against the wall and his eyes squeeze closed. Oh, what he wouldn't give to just _speak _to her, to tell her he is _here! Right here!_ If she can only find a way to him...!

_Alice..._

The thought of her is laced with so much love and desperation and despair and _need _he feels his heart strain with it. Oh, if only she could feel it! If only she could sense how _close _he is!

Tarrant startles as he realizes there _is _a way! How stupid of him to forget about the heart line!

He takes a deep breath, lets it out, tries to focus...

_**Alice...**_

"Am I interrupting something?"

Tarrant turns away from the wall and has to stop himself from grabbing Chessur from midair and shaking the information he seeks from him.

"If you'd like to be alone with... the wall, I'm sure we can oblige you..."

Tarrant hears only the lack of Alice's name, whereabouts, and health. "Tell me. NAUW."

"Ahem. Yes, well, the queen and Alice are unharmed. I was unable to talk to her majesty as she was having breakfast with Prince Jaspien and..."

"Alice?" Mally interrupts.

"Er, no... Alice is in the side courtyard... training."

"What? What's she doin' trainin' with _this _lot! _We're _her tutors!" the dormouse huffs.

"I... am not exactly sure, but... it appears that the situation is... complicated."

"How complicated can it be? Jaspien kidnapped the queen and Alice and is holding them hostage," Bayard states with a doggy frown.

"Well, it's... that is... Prince Jaspien does not appear to be acting _alone._" Chessur flicks a fearful gaze in Tarrant's direction.

"_Tell me!_"

The cat backs up a bit at the furious demand, but relents: "His associates appear to be Viscount Valereth and... Lord Oshtyer..."

Tarrant's jaw clenches, he can feel the rage within him _burning _through every patch of exposed skin: his hands, which clench; his face, which pales; his eyes, which _flame_. "We're gettin'er out o'there _righ' nauw!_"

"No, we _can't!_"

Tarrant ignores that wretched, cowardly, politically-adverse, useless wrapping of sometimes-invisible fur and strides toward the front gates of the castle.

"_No!_"

Suddenly, Tarrant finds himself pinned against the wall by his own form. He struggles, damning the blasted cat for his interference and refusal to just bloody _forget _Tarrant's shape!

"Hatter! Stop! Even if we were to storm the castle now and find Alice, she would not be able to come _with us!_"

"Ye said she wasnae hurt!" Tarrant grits out between his teeth. "She's out in th'open, trainin'! 'Tis our _chance!_"

"No, it's not! She is _bound _to this place!"

Mally gasps. "They've got her in manacles? In shackles? I'll kill them! I'll stab their eyes out! I'll –"

"_No!_" Chessur-as-the-Hatter hisses. "Alice cannot leave because..." Tarrant watches as his own face turns toward him and he feels his heart race at the pitying look he's given. "Please, Tarrant, let us away. Do not make me tell you this... _here._"

Tarrant narrows his eyes. "Ye'll tell me 'rI'll shout th'bloody place down an' don'think I won'do it!"

"Botheration. I _know _you would. Just to get captured so you can see Alice for yourself. But that would not _help _her now! She's..." Chessur pauses. Seems to consider one more attempt at begging Tarrant to come away from the castle before hearing what he has to say.

"_Continue..._" Tarrant demands in a very dangerous tone.

Chessur does. "Alice is no longer the Queen's Champion."

"She...? What?" Mally very nearly shouts. Bayard shushes her.

"I do not know how it happened but... Alice," he gulps, "has become a Prince's Champion."

"Which prince?" Mally wonders, confused. And then with sudden but undoubtedly backward insight, she chatters, "The queen hasn't... become a... a... _boy,_ has she?"

"No!" Chessur replies, never taking his too-green gaze off of Tarrant. "Alice belongs to Jaspien now. She's _his _Champion!"

The trembling that Tarrant had been fighting in order to remain calm, in order to hear word of his Alice, breaks free. He shudders, shivers, quakes against the wall. The hands on his arms are the only force holding him up. The rage, the madness, the pain, the terror, it is _nothing _compared to this!

Alice...! _His Alice... ! She's... she is...!_

"_Hatter!_" Chessur shakes him roughly and his head knocks soundly against the stones, dazing him. "We will get her back! If the queen can release her from her vows, then so can the prince. We need only find a way to convince him to do it!"

"Oh, bother-an'-all!" Mally grumbles, kicking the dirt. "We'll have to plan first, _then _fight!"

"I'm afraid so," the cat replies. "But, there are times when each and every one of us must do things contrary to our nature." He gives Tarrant a gentle shake. "Focus, Hatter. Alice needs you. Be rational for her."

Tarrant takes a slow, steadying breath. "I'd be _anything _for Alice."

"Then be the man she needs," Chessur urges. "Help us find a way to free her, to bring her home."

He closes his eyes briefly, wills them to a more logically-hued shade, and nods. "Aye," he agrees. And then he lets the copy of himself pull him away from the castle wall and into the surrounding swamp. He stumbles into the murky, damp forest, numb with disbelief: Never has he done something so contrary to his nature as this!

Not when he'd knelt in that red hall and had seen Alice – improperly sized, again! – seated beside that Bloody Big Head and had pretended not to know her!

Not when he'd charmed the Bloody Big Head and made hats for her!

Not when he'd watched Alice march toward the Jabberwocky, sword in hand, but not a clue as to how to wield it!

Not when he'd stood back and _let her leave Underland!_

Not when he'd closed his eyes to the mirror – to his first glimpse of her in _three bloody years!_ – and denied the queen her request to allow her to bring Alice back to Underland, to _him!_

Not when he'd stood by, time and time again, and had watched supposedly well-bred men and beasts try to hurt her for the sake of chivalry!

Not when he'd kept himself a crowded room and a populated dinner table away from her for weeks on end, daring only to touch her with his gaze!

Not when he'd forced himself to leave her be, to _not _beg her forgiveness for taking such horrible advantage of her and performing the second exchange without her full knowledge and consent!

Not when he'd made himself calm down – despite the utter rage at the thought of her being _gone! taken!_ – and do what he'd had to in order to force his feet-dragging, kerchief-wringing _friends _to get _off their __**lazy scuts and HELP HIM FIND ALICE!**_

Tarrant closes his eyes again, briefly, and takes a deep breath. A calming breath. Alice needs him to be calm. Rational. Contrary.

Yes, there comes a time when they must _all _do something utterly contrary to their natures. Tarrant knows those times – knows them _well – _for he's had a great deal of experience with them already.

* * *

[End Chapter 4]


	49. Book 2, Contrariwise, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Five: Contrariwise **_[Scene 1 of 2]

Mirana manufactures a smile for her breakfast companion and, setting her tea aside, murmurs, "If it wouldn't be too much to ask, Jaspien, dear, could I perhaps watch your Champion train for a bit this morning?"

The prince looks up from his porridge, his unremarkable gray eyes widening just the slightest bit in surprise. Aside from his customary, bland smile upon escorting her to the first meal of the day, it's the first emotion she's seen him exhibit all morning.

"I beg your pardon, Mirana. Did you just express an interest in watching swordplay?"

"Well..." she strives to be as honest as possible lest she be caught out in a lie. "I must admit I _am_ curious as to how she's getting on. She may not be my Champion any longer, and perhaps we were never the closest of friends –" _Forgive me, Alice!_ "– what with her eagerness to brawl at the slightest provocation, but Alice was quite competent in her duties. It's difficult to imagine how she might be becoming _more _proficient under the tutelage of your guard."

"Hm." The prince selects a butter knife and tends to his scone. "Valereth assures me she's coming along just fine. Seems to be enjoying herself, in fact. You need not concern yourself with the particulars."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of it!" Mirana replies with a shudder at the very thought of swordplay "particulars." She sighs. "Still, these last three days have been rather... well, that's not to say that I don't enjoy your company, sir, for I do! But, understandably, you cannot entertain me every hour of the day. I just thought that perhaps viewing the activity in the courtyard might provide a distraction."

"Indeed. However, I doubt it would be a sight fit to a queen's tastes."

Hiding her frustration behind a self-depreciating sigh, Mirana replies, "Oh, I know. I don't know _what's _gotten into me. This preoccupation with blood sports." Again, another shudder. "I can't seem to get my mind off of it. Embroidery, painting, even the magnificent pianoforte you provided – so thoughtful! – can't sway my mind from it. It's like a... curse. Or..." She visibly fumbles for the word she's supposedly searching for. "A poison! Yes, it's like a poison!"

Jaspien sips his tea – unsweetened, un-creamed – and hums in thoughtful contemplation. Mirana wonders if the man has had any sort of education in the basics of the art of alchemy. For every apothecary – and apothecary's apprentice, for that matter! – knows the _only _way to cure an Underlandian poison, is the exposure to more of it!

"I do not enjoy hearing you describe your health in such dire terms," the prince finally says. Lifting his gaze to hers, he studies her face. Mirana makes herself look upon his thinning, mouse-gray hair, dispassionate expression, and weak chin with fondness. And _there!_ She sees the slight softening of his thin mouth and hopes...!

"Although the thought of you being subjected to the harsh realities of a fortress guard's lifestyle does not sit well with me, I imagine we can make an exception, just this once."

Mirana lifts a hand and gently pats his forearm. The gesture makes her skin crawl. "_Thank you!_ When I am cured, I shall request to be taken back to my room at once," she vows.

Seeming pleased, Jaspien returns to his breakfast and considers a boiled egg. Mirana once more regards to her plate of slightly off-season fruit and tries not to bask _too obviously _in her victory.

Never before has she has to rely so heavily on her skills in passive deception. Never before has her personal safety been at risk for so long. Never before has she had so much to lose and to gain. It's nerve wracking... even more so, in fact, than the day of that terrifying attack on Hightopp Village. For, that indescribably horrible experience had occurred and passed far too quickly for Mirana to truly _experience_ it. But _this _situation _crawls _by, _slithers_ like a lost snail, permitting Mirana to examine each horridly uncertain hour moment by torturous moment.

_Torturous._ Yes, that's exactly the word to describe her predicament. The Soul Bond aches to bring her closer to her betrothed, to bridge the distance between them and Mirana reprimands herself for acting so rashly – so romantically! – when Dale had proposed. She _knows _she should have waited until he could follow her back to Mamoreal for good... She _had _known it, but how could she have refused in him the beautiful, perfect moment that had been completely _theirs?_ Still, a part of her feels strengthened by his presence, distant though it feels and despite the persistent ache caused by their separation.

The queen wishes her discomfort were merely limited to that, but – alas – it is not: Mirana hasn't had a glimpse of Alice since the young woman had been escorted to her _new _chambers following that fateful dinner. And although Alice had confessed to worrying whether or not the queen would or could be safe in her absence, Mirana finds herself distracted and overcome with that very concern for her former Champion.

Mirana summons a gentle smile and looks up, intending to ask Prince Jaspien about some mundane aspect of his dreary existence, when the breakfast room door opens and Valereth enters.

"Good morning, Your Majesties," he murmurs. Mirana hides a wince at the form of address, as if he is speaking to a king and his queen. She does _not _want to think about _that._

"Valereth," Jaspien says, deciding to dare a bit of the boiled egg after all. "Have they been sent?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. I sent the cheetahs; Hornsaver and the Avens will be receiving them by the end of the day."

"Splendid." The prince, however, sounds quite indifferent. "Which do you believe will answer first?"

"The Avens," Valereth says, taking the seat Jaspien points to with his spoon. "Hornsaver will no doubt wait and hope the King's Champion will succeed in defeating ours and save them the trouble."

"Hm. The Shuchland Champion will not be easy to defeat."

"Yes," Valereth agrees. "But, as promised, we've anticipated that. If you'd care to see for yourself, I believe a demonstration can be arranged...?"

"As it so happens," Jaspien replies in a bored tone, "the queen has expressed curiosity as to how you and your warriors could have possibly improved Champion Alice's proficiency. Say, ten o'clock?"

"I'll arrange it."

Without a word or glance in Mirana's direction, Valereth stands and excuses himself from the room.

"You've issued Challenges to the other realms?" Mirana asks after a moment. "How very... daring of you, my dear Jaspien!" _Oh how she wishes she could wash her mouth out!_ Mirana takes a sip of tea instead and tries not to gag on it in self-disgust.

"I imagine it seems so, but it's merely business."

Mirana replies hesitantly, "Oh... I'm afraid I don't have much of a head for business. I can't even imagine what a Champions' Duel has to do with such a venture."

Ever patient, Jaspien explains, "I have the fortress, Valereth the warriors, and Oshtyer has the Jubjub bird and..." Here, the prince frowns. "... the particular... bent of mind, shall we say, necessary for these sorts of things. We've entered into an arrangement whereby all of us will benefit. Once the other realms fall to my Champion –" Mirana nearly reaches across the table and _smacks _him across his overly bland face for that remark – _his _Champion, indeed! Alice will _never _be _his!_ Not truly! – but she merely refolds the linen napkin across her lap.

"Yes, when the other lands fall to my Champion, Oshtyer will have his Galandonland, Valereth will have his Shuchland, and..."

"Yes? What will you have?" Mirana inquires breathlessly. She would have been breathless regardless at the unsettling knowledge that Lord Hornsaver's people – such proud and noble countrymen – will be under the sadistic rule of that... _creature._ And the very thought of beautiful Shuchland being subjected to Valereth's cruel, callous care nearly makes her weep. She fears, however, she has not heard the worst of their plans.

Prince Jaspien glances toward the windows and Mirana thinks she sees a slight blush in his cheeks. Dread unfurls within her.

He says with gravity, "I shall have Mamoreal and all the lands of the White Realm. And, the White Queen herself, should she consent to ruling by my side."

When he turns suddenly and regards her expression, Mirana knows she can't hide her shock. The disgust and horror, though, _those _she manages to suppress before they can rise to the surface. "Well, that is... quite the proposal," she manages. "A queen would do well to consider all aspects of that arrangement."

"I trust you will," he replies and then returns to slurping his porridge.

Mirana forces herself to eat, her motions automatic and expression arranged very carefully to express burgeoning delight. Inwardly, she's calculating how long it will take for the challenges to be delivered to the other lands, how long it will take for the Avens to reply and assemble their army, how long she will have to dodge his proposal.

_Perhaps two days..._

She hopes it's not more than that, for surely, he will require her answer and, when she gives it, it will, unavoidably, be in the form of a promise.

Her expression is still pleasantly vacant and her mind still uncomfortably full when Mirana is escorted to a narrow balcony overlooking the side courtyard.

"We won't be going down?" she asks, puzzled.

Prince Jaspien gives her a sidelong glance. "I wouldn't subject you to the muck of the yard unnecessarily, Mirana. The view from here is quite adequate. You shall indulge in your poison's cure to your heart's contentment."

"Indeed. And I shall be able to retire discreetly should the scene become... disquieting. It's very thoughtful of you, dear Jaspien."

His chest puffs out a bit and Mirana turns away to gaze down upon the scene two stories below. Alice and... Mirana leans a bit further over the low wall of the balcony and stifles a gasp. _Is that an... Outlander?_

It is. Dressed in his ceremonial clothes, no less, reminiscent of Tarrant's own battle wardrobe on that prophesied Frabjous Day. Mirana hides a wince as snatches of his Outlandish brogue float up to her on the breeze. Were it not for the fact that she _knows _this man is not her Hatter, she might have assumed otherwise from the sound of his voice alone. Mirana has had no corporeal reminders of Dale – the lion-man she loves – in the time she's spent here. But, unfortunately, the same cannot be said for Alice.

_Oh, Alice!_

The battle begins and Mirana can scarcely watch, but she forces herself not to look away. She's seen Alice fight earnestly before. Seven times, to be exact. But _this _time is like no other. The _fury_, the _calculation_, the _utter __**blood-thirst **_is so foreign, Mirana can barely recognize her former Champion, her closest friend. Alice's face is pulled into a fierce grimace and the collection of recent and healing bruises there make the expression truly horrible. She thinks she sees hand-sized discolorations around the woman's neck and around her bare upper arms. Mirana's heart aches and she wonders how many other bruises there are, concealed beneath the leather armor and trousers she wears.

_What has become of you, my Champion?_ Mirana despairs. She watches as Alice not only _attacks _but _rages, hunts, __**devours, destroys **_her opponent's defense. In a matter of minutes it's all over. The Outlander is on his back, his sword is gone, and Alice's blade is at his throat, and her foot – Mirana winces – Alice's foot is pressed between the man's legs. It's _this _action – this horribly cruel, merciless, callous action – that destroys what little hope Mirana has for her friend's sanity. For Alice would _never _be so... so...

"Well done!"

Mirana startles as Oshtyer applauds from the crowd.

_Oshtyer._

"We've made a _true _Champion out of you, Alice," he praises her.

Mirana expects Alice to spit in the man's direction. But she steps back, releasing her prey, and gives that cheating sack of filth a knowing smile. "I believe you have, my lord."

_My. Lord._

Mirana wrestles with her tears.

_Oh, Alice. What have you become? What have I made you do? What have you __**let **__them do to you?_

But the queen knows these answers. She knows what Alice has become, what she's **had to** become to survive, to ensure Mirana's safety, to keep them from searching for Tarrant.

Alice has become a mercenary.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5: Scene 1 of 2]


	50. Book 2, Contrariwise, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Five: Contrariwise **_[Scene 2 of 2]

The nightmare never changes.

Alice fights until he finds and then rings the silver bell.

And then she lowers her sword.

And then she dies.

At _his _hand.

Tarrant gasps awake, heart pounding, fear overwhelming him, panic erasing all higher thought processes.

_Alice!_

He struggles with the blanket, throwing it off of himself and casting his gaze around the tiny clearing. He forces himself to count them, his companions: _One... two-three... one... two-three..._ Little by little, his heart obeys the rhythm. It slows, quiets, and aches.

One... two-three... And none of them are Alice. It doesn't matter how many times he checks – just to be sure! – none of them are _ever_ Alice. He listens to Mally's buzzing snores, muffled beneath one of McTwisps' white gloves. He hears Thackery's foot thump against the exposed root of the weeping willow drooping over him. He discerns the White Rabbit's wispy whispers from his dreams.

No Alice.

Tarrant closes his eyes and reminds himself:

Alice is in Causwick Castle.

Alice is Jaspien's Champion.

Alice needs Tarrant to be calm. Rational.

Unlike yesterday morning – and the morning before that! – when he'd woken everyone at dawn with his desperate calls and frantic search for Alice among the bedrolls and campfire ashes, today he manages to keep the Terror in check.

But he knows he cannot sit here and do nothing. It's far too dark to make tea, to start a fire, to rouse his fellow hopeful rescuers. He looks over his shoulder into the dense, murky swamp, through the gnarled, looming willow trees, in the direction of Causwick Castle.

_Alice..._

Tarrant stands and, after first shaking out his boots, puts them on. It's a reflex to reach for his broadsword and as his fingers curl around it, he startles.

_The sword!_

The sword that kills his Alice, _his sword_... He should not take it with him. He prefers the butter knife, prefers the peace of mind that fits in his pocket with it. The broadsword presses against his mind as it weighs across his back. If he does not take it, he will not find it somehow thrust through his Alice's armor.

Understandably, Tarrant had not been very enthusiastic – although he _should _have been, he knows! – when Tweedledum had delivered it to him the day before yesterday as he and his brother had announced the arrival of the Queen's Army.

For long moments, he stares at the sword, undecided.

And then he sighs and picks it up, swinging the belt over his shoulder and settling the blade against his back.

_Alice will not let you hurt her,_ he tells himself and believes it. Alice has _never _let him hurt her. Not when the madness of Loss and Panic had taken him the day she'd stepped through the looking glass. Not when she'd given herself to him after the third exchange and he'd been paralyzed with Fear and Apprehension for her. Alice has _never_ let him hurt her. He _trusts_ her not to let him hurt her.

Hence, the broadsword accompanies him.

Tarrant steps quietly through the trees, sticking to the narrow path he and the others have carved through the sinister wilderness toward the object of their frustration and desperation. He knows he shouldn't be doing this. He ought to stay in the camp until dawn. Tarrant cannot see as well at night as the others can. He could stumble across one of Jaspien's Dobermans and lead its nose right back to his companions.

But he _has to _be closer to Alice. Just a bit closer. Just...

Even the nocturnal creatures of the swamp are quiet now in the hour before sunrise and Tarrant shivers.

_Alone..._

_Abandoned..._

_Apart..._

_Assailable..._

Is this how his Alice feels?

He pauses along the trail and his eyelids flutter. His fingers dig into the mossy trunk of a tree.

_Ache..._

_Awful..._

_Acute..._

_Acidic..._

He **burns **with the need to have her with him again, to keep her, to feel her hold onto him again!

"I'd ask what it is you think you're doing out here, but I already know the answer," a familiar drawling voice muses.

Tarrant opens his eyes and glares – albeit a bit weakly – at the Cheshire Cat. "I'm ou'_here_ because I cannae ge'in _there._"

"As I suspected."

He sighs. "How is she?"

"She just woke up." The beat of silence following that statement is significant. Tarrant understands what Chessur means, but the bloody creature can't resist salting the wound: "I assume because _you _did."

"Aye."

"The same nightmare?"

Tarrant intends to answer, but – at the reminder of that unbearable nightmare – the feeling of dread renews itself and saps his strength, steals his breath, locks his throat.

The cat sighs. "And yet you brought the sword."

"I trust her."

"Too much."

Tarrant turns and studies the cat's despondent expression. "Tell me."

Looking relieved to finally do so, Chessur says, "I... do not know how much longer Alice can continue down the path she's chosen. If we do not have a chance to approach Jaspien soon, we shall have to risk an assault."

Tarrant's jaw clenches. "Ye never tell me wha'they're doin'teh'er... I imagine... I _see_..." The most horrible, wretched, nauseating things, _that's _what he sees, imagines.

"But what do you feel? What does her heart tell you?"

Tarrant takes a deep breath and examines the poignant heartache that follows him everywhere during Alice's every waking moment. He examines the faint emotions flowing through her blood and into his heart and is thankful once again for the gift of the heart line. "That she's... surviving."

Chessur nods. "As I've said, she's training. She's surviving."

"Hav'ye spoken teh her?"

"Not yet. It... she's concentrating very hard on... things."

"Wha'_things?_"

"Tarrant, do not ask me questions you do not want to hear the answers to."

He feels his temper flare. "An' jus'wha'woul'ye know abou'th'answers I d'nae wan'teh hear?"

Chessur meets his angry gaze with one of resignation. "Enough," he says, finally. "Leave be, Tarrant. Leave be."

But he _can't._ "They... are they... _hurting _her?" he asks, keeping himself under tight control.

"No."

The relief is instantaneous and almost painful in its suddenness. He sighs out a breath.

"No," Chessur continues, negating his assurance with a second. "She is hurting herself. And _that _is why we must act soon."

Tarrant assesses the stone fortress, purpose hardening his body, strengthening his limbs. "There's Outlanders in there... I could..."

"You'd need a helmet to hide your face and hair, but no one wears them. They'd cut you down in an instant."

He doesn't care about that. There's still the smallest chance that he'd be able to...

"Or, worse yet," Chessur continues, no doubt seeing the stubborn light in Tarrant's flashing eyes. "They'll set their Champion on you in a duel. Do you want Alice to have to fight you while surrounded by dozens of hardened mercenaries? When she refuses to kill you, she'll have a even greater fight on her hands after _that_..."

Tarrant can imagine it; if Alice shows any weakness, the prince will never trust her beyond the walls of the castle. Perhaps he'll merely have her killed. But, if – by some miracle – that horror does _not _come to pass, Alice will not only have to re-earn the trust of her liege but also the respect-born-of-violence from each and every single one of those ruthless mercenaries. And worse yet, Tarrant would be at their mercy, and Alice even more so... through the heart line.

"She's safe now?" he checks.

"Yes."

When Chessur doesn't double his reassurance, Tarrant relents and releases his fantasy of charging the gate in a blaze of mad glory.

"Have you spoken to the queen?"

"No. I'm waiting until we have some good news to offer her." Chessur sighs. "For now she has hope that we will find a way. I do not want to tell her we haven't found it yet."

Tarrant says nothing. He studies the un-ascendable walls, the flickering torches lighting the battlements, the shadows moving along the parapet. He examines every detail of the castle's visible defenses, cursing each part. After all that he and Alice have overcome – the Jabberwocky, suitors, unanswered questions, unknown consequences – _this _is what keeps them apart! This mediocre pile of stone and mortar! These money-loving lunatics!

Yes, they can keep him from wrapping his arms around her. They can keep her hands from caressing his face. They can keep her voice from reaching him or his riddles from reaching her. But there is one thing they _cannot _keep out!

Closing his eyes, Tarrant focuses. He draws upon his immeasurable, depthless, endless, boundless _love_ for her. He gathers it up until he wonders if it might burst his heart. His need for her, his adoration, his hope, his utter _devotion_ to her... And then he _wills _it through his blood and into her heart.

_Feel me, Alice... Send me a writing desk for my raven..._

He gasps when a twinge of surprise pulses around his own heart. Then he feels it: a pain of such intensity he can barely comprehend it. If it had been a color, it would have been blindingly white, brighter than any sun of any world in all of the universe. It _burns _him and, gasping, he places a hand over his chest.

"What is it? Is she...?"

Tarrant shakes his head. "An answer. _Her _answer," he manages.

For a moment, Chessur frowns at him in confusion. And then: "You stubborn Outlander. _Don't _distract her! The role she must play is hard enough without you reminding her of the price of her failure!"

"The price?" Tarrant narrows his eyes. "No more half-truths, Chessur. Tell me all of it."

The cat does.

Tarrant listens, his heart breaking bit by bit as Chessur's account pours into his mind, one miserable phrase at a time:

"... has forsaken the queen and turned to violence..."

"... appears to enjoy the domination of others..."

"... scorns her heart line..."

"... loves no one, laughs at others' humiliation..."

"... wouldn't recognize her if you saw her now, Tarrant..."

"... her eyes, so cold now, cruel..."

"... losing herself in this game..."

Leaning heavily against the moss-covered willow, Tarrant presses his hand to the flesh and bone over his heart as if he might find Alice's hand there, as if he might give her that small comfort. He stares, seeing nothing. Finally, he understands the persistent heartache that Alice gifts him with from sunup to sundown. Finally, he understands that brilliantly agonizing _anguish_ that had been her reply: so much love and desperation and hopelessness and fear and _please-come-get-me-__**can't-take-more-PLEASE-COME-NOW!**_

"Don't remind her that she can still lose you," Chessur murmurs. "No more heart line messages, Tarrant."

He turns away and a gasping sob escapes him. His eyes feel hot but he's not angry. His cheeks feel cold and wet but it's not raining.

"Go back to the camp," Chessur urges. "I'll check in with the queen and Alice and see you –"

The whisper is cut off as, suddenly, a rusty clanking shatters the twilight. In the pale, silvery light of dawn, the sounds of mechanizations shatter the peace of the swamp.

Swallowing down the suffocating torment, Tarrant focuses on the castle gates. "'Tis opening..." He leans forward, calculating the distance. If he runs, could he...?

"_No!_" Chessur bats his face with a paw.

Tarrant grunts, surprised. He glares. "D'nae tell me _no'teh _–!"

"Hush! Get behind that tree, damn you! _Now!_"

He does. Chessur vanishes. They both watch as two beasts, sprinting on four legs, become streaks of yellow and black as they tear down the rutted, muddy road. Almost immediately, the gates begin to close.

Tarrant fists his hands. It's too late to make the distance in time. He fumes as this chance – bad though it had been – shuts in front of his eyes.

"Couriers," Chessur decides. "I have to –"

"Go," Tarrant tells him.

"Expect me later. After I learn more."

Tarrant nods, but Chessur has already disappeared. Feeling once more alone, abandoned, apart, and assailable, Tarrant makes his way back to camp. He walks slowly, as he knows he will find no answers on this path and no relief when he arrives at his destination.

He wishes himself back in time, back to one of those first fifteen days, back to a time when Alice had been away, when she had been safe and well and merely _absent _from his side. Those days that tortured him with worry and doubt and fear. But they are _nothing _compared with the pure, undiluted, soul-burning **hell** he is trapped in, _she _is trapped in, _they are trapped in..._ _**separately.**_

He considers the angle of the early morning sun. Perhaps it's too late for him to try, she might be among the enemy now, but he _needs to...!_

Tarrant closes his eyes and lets the emotion fill him up as he thinks, _Fight, win, and find me again!_

He dares no more than that.

He waits for her reply, for a warming around his own heart or a too sharp reprimand or a thud of despair, but it never comes. And each moment that passes is like dying again and again and again. And yet, Tarrant does _not _die, which is perhaps the cruelest torture of all. Even worse than the nightmare he cannot escape, even when he's awake.

He arrives at the small encampment, but seeing no one else awake, collapses on his thin bedroll. At his back, his sword knocks against the ground and rebounds against his shoulder. Startled, Tarrant pulls it off. He'd forgotten he'd been wearing it.

He curls his fingers around the scabbard and wonders about his Alice and he wonders about his dream. Alice _dies _on this sword _every night!_ _Why_ must the same dream haunt him, plague him, destroy him so relentlessly? Tarrant shivers in the pre-dawn darkness.

He hesitates to understand what is obviously the truth: Alice has turned away from the White Queen, has changed sides. As it now stands, Tarrant and Alice are no longer allies. Perhaps _that_ is the meaning buried in the dream, warning him that he may have to face his wife across a battlefield, divided by allegiances.

And there is no changing the fact that, at this moment, were it required of her, his Alice would _have to _fight for the gutless fiends who have taken her _away from __**him!**_

_And what are you going to be doing about it, lad?_

The leather scabbard creaks, complains in his grasp.

What _will _he do?

He grapples with indecision he's never experienced before when it has come to Alice's safety. Will he fight – unsheathe this sword – and risk that horrible dream being made real? Will he stand by and do nothing?

He considers, ponders, and frets until someone else in the small camp wakes and distracts him, assists him in forgetting to whom this chronic heartache belongs. Today, it's Nivens.

"Good morning," the White Rabbit yawns.

Tarrant eyes his muck-caked feet, dusty and grass-stained fur, and wrinkled ears. "And a very frumious morning to you, McTwisp."

Plopping down at the edge of the fire ring, Nivens tosses a few sticks into it and – stamping his feet on them too fast for Tarrant's eyes to catch – starts a fire. "What's on the agenda today?" McTwisp asks wearily. "Following tea, that is."

Considering Chessur's insistence on acting sooner rather than later, Tarrant replies, "Strategy." He rises and kneels by the fire, reaching for the provisions and tin teapot.

"What sort precisely?"

"The sort Mally will enjoy _immensely._"

"Oh, dear..."

Tarrant allows himself to think no deeper than those shallow words and this equally shallow moment, and grins.

After a moment of studying him, McTwisp ventures, "This will be the fourth day, since..."

Setting the kettle near the fire, Tarrant dusts off his hands and keeps his smile in place with an act of will.

"And, I must say," the White Rabbit continues, "your enduring... calm is an inspiration. And a surprise."

Tarrant's eyelashes flicker. _Calm._ Yes, he's calm because Alice is still alive. Still alive and uninjured. But, no, that's not true. Her soul is crying out, dying a heartbeat at a time. His Alice is _not _safe. She is _not _uninjured. She is nearing the end of her considerable strength and she _needs him and here he sits __**not ten bloody minutes AWAY AND HE CANNOT EVEN—!**_

His hands tremble as the Blackness begins to creep up around him.

"Now, now!" McTwisp hurries to reassure him. "As Chessur has said time and time again, she's fine. The queen is fine. We'll get them back."

His fists clench and he forces a deep breath into his lungs. "I have to be calm. For Alice," Tarrant belatedly explains. "Contrary. Contrary, _necessary _things. Tea is easier." He reaches for the tin of tea leaves. Wisely, Nivens refrains from further comment as Tarrant focuses on the mundane task.

"Rattle, rattle, tittle, tattle!" Thackery yawns, stumbling over to the fire. He sniffs, blinks, and holds out a teacup in mute demand for service.

"Did you sleep well?" Nivens asks the hare solicitously.

Thackery's whiskers twitch. "_Tea_."

"Hm. Not so well, perhaps."

"Two more minutes," Tarrant tells him, smiling so hard he feels his teeth ache.

Thackery abruptly slumps over his cup – now cradled in his paws on his lap – and begins snoring gently.

"It amazes me how he can just... _do _that," McTwisp murmurs, unwilling to wake the hare before the tea has been steeped properly.

"A March Hare trait, I believe," Tarrant explains, tilting his head and listening to the bit of the steam issuing from the kettle's spout. "Nearly..." He nods in time with the subtle rhythm of tea leaves soaking in scalding hot water. He often endeavors to make his own rhymes emulate the cadence of frolicking tea leaves. It's a delicate balance of syllables and stresses. Few appreciate the art.

_Alice does..._

Tarrant slams that thought shut by pressing his thumb against the side of the tin kettle, receiving a burn for his efforts and a blessedly blank mind.

"Er..."

He glances up at Nivens who studies him with worried, pink eyes. Tarrant resumes his grin. "Mally seems quite fond of your gloves. I can't say she'll need _both_, however, so which one will you be parting with?"

"I suppose I could spare the right one," he replies slowly, thinking through his answer.

Tarrant nods and checks the resonance of the tea with the tin kettle and determines it to be ready. "Thackery, tea!" he announces and Thackery thrusts out his cup even before he lifts his head and opens his eyes.

He serves the hare and the rabbit, by which time Mally has followed her nose to the campfire and pushes her own cup in Tarrant's direction. "Lucky Fenruffle thought to bring us provisions!" she mumbles, blowing across the surface of her cup. "Imagine having tea with only a _butter knife!_"

"An adventure for another time, perhaps," Tarrant allows.

"Speaking of, how do things stand at Causwick today? I believe you mentioned something about strategy being on the agenda for the day?" Nivens wonders aloud, drawing the now-pleasantly-caffeinated gazes of Mally and Thackery.

"Agenda?" Thackery barks with concern.

"Strategy?" Mally enthuses.

"Aye," Tarrant replies to both. "Four days is _quite _long enough for our Champion to have formulated and implemented an escape on her own. As she has not, we can therefore assume that she requires assistance. We shall, therefore, be attending to her and the queen's immediate rescue."

"So, what are we _waiting for?_" Mally jumps to her feet.

Thackery rolls his eyes. "_Tea!_" And silently demands a refill.

"And Chessur," Tarrant adds. "He'll be bringing us the latest developments."

"Hm... but I suppose there's no harm in planning anyway? To pass the time until he arrives?" Mally inquires, taking her seat and picking up her cup again.

"No, no harm at all," Tarrant agrees.

Three pots of tea, some tossed scones, a dozen lost sugar cubes, and a smoldering pair of stockings later – _how had __**those**_ _ended up in with the provisions?_ – Tarrant has decided to turn Oshtyer into a dreadfully-hued puce bonnet, Mally has declared her intent to start an eyeball collection, Thackery has determined a bit of heart-of-my-foe tea might be to his liking, and Nivens has passed out exactly four times.

All in all, it had been a rather productive meeting!

That is, until Chessur shows up and delivers the news Tarrant had promised them. At which point, the bonnet, eyeball collection, and still-beating-heart tea ambitions must be pushed aside in the interest of forming a coherent – rather challenging, that! – rescue strategy.

At the apparent loss of her war trophies, Mally looks almost as disappointed as Thackery.

Tarrant pats the hare on his shoulder. "Don't worry. Plenty of time for murder, mayhem, manhandling, maiming, and the molding and manufacturing of marvelous bonnets for Queen Mirana _afterwards!_"

"Callou! Callay!" Thackery cheers.

"'M's, Hatter!" Mally giggles hysterically.

Tarrant cackles and snorts.

Nivens twitches with distress.

Chessur sighs and gets himself a cup of tea (minus the dusty scones, mud-melted sugar cubes, and blackened stockings). Tarrant laughs harder: the bloody cat has _no_ sense of adventure. Although, he must admit he almost _wishes _to be in the same room – a grin on the wall! – when the Cheshire Cat informs Her Majesty of the details of their plan. Yes, _that _would be _very _satisfying, indeed!

Of course, the _most _satisfying thing of all would be...

His heart thumps once, painfully, and Tarrant forces his smile not to droop.

Yes, he knows what it is – whose name – he can't permit himself to think. Not now, not during the day, not when it might _interrupt..._

_Mustn't bother... Yes... working now..._

Other words drift through his mind, words like _fight_ and _win _and _survive!_ Emotions batter at his heart: anticipation, anxiety, annoyance, adoration, aggravation, affection, apprehension, agitation, and alarm.

Tarrant notices that these things all start with the letter 'A'. But he maintains his affliction, his ebullient madness. He would be anything for his... Yes, he'd promised to become _anyone_, and right now, he knows a mad hatter would be appreciated and an aggrieved husband would most definitely _not_.

He offers Nivens another drop or two of tea and ponders the _amazing _accruement of 'A' words he's producing this morning... All that he is able to think up, in fact, except the most obvious one.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5]


	51. Book 2, Messages Before Battle, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Six: Messages before Battle**_ [Scene 1 of 3]

The instructions on the card Mirana discovers in the bodice of her dress the next morning following her bath is both welcome and puzzling. She burns it in the hearth when the maids leave her to wait for Prince Jaspien to escort her to breakfast. As the flames devour the scrap of parchment, Mirana considers the message, the handwriting, the mysterious method of delivery.

_It's nearly time...!_

Which is very good news indeed as Prince Jaspien had given her quite the significant look the night before at the conclusion of dinner. No doubt he's expecting her answer imminently.

Mirana once again considers the first line of the message and sighs in relief. At least now she'll have something to offer the man, something to distract him with for just a _little _longer!

_**Arrange yourself to be at the prince's side during the battle.**_

Yes, Mirana thinks she can manage that. Pausing at the room's lovingly detailed vanity, Mirana regards her reflection, practices her dreamy smiles and adorably befuddled expressions. When the knock on the door comes, she's ready.

Rather than call out for him to enter – as she usually does – Mirana floats to the door but, as she nears it, the sound of voices on the other side startle her:

"... is resting, as you requested," Oshtyer says.

"Excellent. Now, if you'll excuse me...?"

"Actually, I'd like to reiterate my request to have a bit of... private time with our lovely Champion. Surely you can spare her for an afternoon. I promise not to... damage her on the eve of battle."

"My answer has not changed since the last time you asked. Need I remind you that it is not only _your _hopes that rest in that woman's hands? Valereth has insisted she be rested and ready for battle and I, myself, concur. I'll not risk failure _now._ Find yourself another distraction," Jaspien orders with finality.

"But should _she _come to me...?"

"Tomorrow we face Shuchland! This is not the time for such trivialities!"

"I see. Only _you _are allowed your _fine _distractions?"

There's a moment of silence and then Oshyter mumbles, "That was uncalled for. I apologize."

"As you should. This is _my _castle. _My _keep. Don't forget it."

Shivering, Mirana steps away from the door as quietly as possible and manages to make it all the way to the window when the knock comes again. Grasping the curtain and feigning a daydream, the queen sighs, "Come in!"

"Good morning, Mirana."

"Jaspien, dear!" Oh, for how much longer is she going to have to play the silly, vacuously-minded twit? "How are you this beautiful morning?"

He holds out his arm for her as she crosses the room. "I am well. Yourself? Did that unsuitable distraction with blood sports finally leave you be?"

_Not particularly,_ Mirana thinks and imagines delivering Oshtyer to Tarrant and informing him of the man's repulsive leanings toward their Alice. Bemusedly, she wonders how much might be left of the foul creature once Tarrant has finished with him.

However, she says, "Oh! Well, yes, I do believe I'm cured." She places her other hand on his arm as he leads her down the empty corridor. "You were very understanding about that horrible business yesterday," she simpers.

Jaspien gives her a vague smile. "It was my pleasure, Mirana. Do not hesitate to bring any issue concerning your wellbeing to my attention. I cannot provide adequate protection if I am unaware of your needs."

Mirana smiles brilliantly as she takes her seat and allows Jaspien to push her chair in. Their breakfast is delivered and the servants depart. Once the prince has slurped half of his porridge, consumed one cup of black tea, and then proceeds to pick up his egg spoon – once again contemplating the boiled egg that was been provided for him – Mirana clears her throat delicately.

"I... well, I do have _one _other concern..."

"Yes?"

Mirana twists her napkin in her hands. "Well, the Challenges will be coming soon, will they not? And you will be going to the battlefield with your Champion..."

Jaspien sets aside his spoon and gives her his undivided attention. "Shuchland has already answered. The time has been set for brillig tomorrow."

Mirana dares to hope she will have to endure only one more day of this farce. "Well, I was wondering what would become of me."

The prince smiles warmly and reaches out to still her hands. "You will be safe, Mirana. I'll not allow any harm to come to you while you're under my protection."

"That is a great relief, sir..."

"Yet it does not settle your nerves?"

Mirana shakes her head and summons up a tear. "I... well, it's just... _anything _could happen while you're away and I'd be _here _and if... what if... Well, I've heard enough war stories from Alice! Armies being outflanked... secret attacks on the absent lord's keep... I... I fear for my safety, Jaspien," she admits brokenly.

The prince's fingers tighten around hers. "Tell me what will set your mind at ease, Mirana."

"I... that is, could I stand with you? At the battle? I know it's dangerous, but _please_, Jaspien! You don't know what it will mean to me to have my protector beside me, to stand _with _you across the field from our..." Mirana deliberately lets her voice trail off, wary of turning her ploy into a promise she won't be able to keep.

She expects an argument – one stronger than that which she'd received the day before when she'd suggested watching Alice's morning training.

Jaspien smiles, "I would not have you anywhere else but by my side, Mirana."

And, looking upon his pleased expression, Mirana almost feels a tiny helping of Guilt. Almost. The sense of Victory drowns it quite nicely, however.

Mirana focuses on glowing with relief. Jaspien is – as ever – completely fooled by her deception and returns to his boiled egg.

Breakfast ends and the rest of the day stretches out before her as vast as the oceans of Upland Alice had described to her over one of their companionable teatimes. Oh, how she misses those!

_Soon, soon! Alice and I will be home, safe, and this bad dream will be all over and done with._

Mirana fiddles with the pianoforte in the parlor for a bit, making noise to keep the maids from poking their heads in to check on her. The time alone gives her the chance to consider the second instruction on the parchment:

_**Expect a visit from a cat this evening.**_

The queen admits to being a bit puzzled over this. Why would Chessur be visiting her on the eve of the battle against Shuchland if not to rescue her? But he must not be, for what would be the purpose of the first line of the message if Mirana is to be freed before dawn?

She turns her attention to painting and then embroidery. The maids occasionally stop by with tea and sweets. Mirana endures their overbearing presence and considers mutilating another classically composed piece with the pianoforte just to drive them away, but she paces instead; she shows them that she's worried about the coming battle.

"Do you think the Shuchlanders would... well, would they _harm_ Prince Jaspien during the Champions' Duel? They... wouldn't _cheat, _would they?" Mirana asks one of her visitors at one point.

The maid smiles. "I'm sure he will be well-protected. Do not let it worry you, Your Majesty."

"I shall do my best not to!" she replies gamely.

But worst moments of the day occur during the eternally _long _dinner Mirana must endure. In recognition of the coming fight, she dines with Jaspien, of course, as well as his two associates and Alice.

Alice sits beside Mirana but nothing of importance can be said in the presence of their captors.

"Prince Jaspien tells me your skills have improved immensely, Alice. Congratulations!" Mirana comments breathlessly as the men argue over Hornsaver's reaction to their anticipated victory on the morrow.

"Thank you, Your Majesty. It has been a very beneficial experience."

Mirana suppresses a wince at her friend's tone. It's appreciative, yes, but beneath that... dull, wooden, _lifeless._

"You're not eating, Alice. You're not experiencing any anxiety over the battle tomorrow, are you?" Oshtyer interjects, his dark eyes gleaming with a very unsettling twinkle.

Alice's smile is quite... feral. "I fight better when I'm... hungry."

It takes all of her strength to keep from flinching away from the... _beast _Alice becomes so easily around these men, and Oshtyer in particular.

He laughs and signals for the waiter to fill their flute glasses. Mirana waits until the Wassailin has been poured before reaching for her glass. Oshtyer stands.

"A toast," he announces to all, "to victory... in all its marvelous forms." His dark eyes flicker in Alice's direction and the glass she holds aloft. "To our dear prince's Champion. To Alice Lassling."

"To Alice!" Jaspien and Valereth agree. Mirana manages to move her lips in concert, but no sound emerges.

They drink, and as is the custom of Underland toasts, they finish every drop before setting down their glasses. Mirana notices Alice's wince and feels a twinge of sympathy: Wassailin is _not _an easy thing to digest on an empty stomach.

"Perhaps we could have the chef prepare something light for you, Alice?" Mirana offers quietly. "To settle your stomach."

With a shake of her head, Alice reaches for her crystal water glass. "Mint should suffice," she replies, taking a sip before setting her wine glass back down on the table with an uncharacteristically loud _thump!_ "Mint," she repeats decisively.

Mirana struggles to keep the horror out of her expression. Dear Fates! Is Alice telling her that she'd just consumed a dose of that horrid Hafflaffen they'd tried to drug both of them with upon their arrival! Of all the foolish, utterly stupid things! Why, there's _no telling _how Alice – an Uplander! – will react to such a powerful substance!

But there's nothing Mirana can do about it, not without giving away her knowledge of their captors' first, failed attempt at poisoning them, not without incurring doubt in Jaspien regarding her cooperation.

_Botheration!_

"I'll stop by the kitchens for some before bed," Alice comments, indifferently.

"Yes, I _do _hope you'll get plenty of rest tonight, Alice. You've an exciting day tomorrow!"

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Alice replies. Mirana watches for the symptoms that come with Hafflaffen poisoning – a waxy complexion, clammy skin, unfocused and dilated eyes. But, of course, if Alice had _just _consumed it, it'll take some time to take effect...

"No one will disturb your rest tonight, Alice," Jaspien promises, slicing his steak into precisely measured pieces. "I shall make sure of it."

Mirana notices Oshtyer's sudden grimace of disappointment. Valereth, seated next to him, and Jaspien, focused on the flesh of some poor, dead animal on his plate, do not notice the slip.

Beneath the table, Mirana dares to stretch her foot out and taps her boot against her friend's shoe. Alice taps back.

Mirana wishes the gesture were reassuring. She wishes she could encourage Alice to eat something, but dares not suggest it aloud. Alice has never fasted so long before a fight and Mirana is sure there must be a reason for her doing so now. The queen decides to investigate.

She picks up her fork and, with a delicate twirl, flips it over the back of her hand and to the floor. Acting startled, she reaches after it and the motion brings her nose much closer to Alice's untouched plate of sautéed mushrooms and beans.

She very carefully inhales and tightens her lips against the reflexive gag.

_Mint..._

Mirana actually feels _dizzy_ at the potency of it! Retrieving her fork and then – sheepishly – relinquishing it to the servant who had scrambled forward to take it, she accepts a clean replacement even as she wonders if that _monster _of a man had _ordered __**every single dish **_of Alice's dinner to be doused with the stuff!

She glances across the table as she lifts her new fork. Oshtyer is watching Alice _not _eating. He looks rather irritated. Mirana can't decide if it's because she refuses to fall into his trap **or** if she _had _ingested the substance but Oshtyer won't be able to take advantage of her now that Jaspien has promised her an undisturbed night's rest.

If the latter is the case, Mirana thinks she could almost _kiss _the prince for that lucky happenstance! Almost.

When dinner finishes and Jaspien asks Valereth to escort Alice to her rooms and station a guard outside in the hall, Mirana can't help feeling a bit relieved. Not only for those precautions but for the fact that Alice's skin is still creamy in color, despite the aged bruises, and her eyes are clear if a bit tired-looking.

Perhaps... perhaps Alice _hadn't _consumed any Hafflaffen after all... Perhaps she'd merely been explaining her rationale for skipping dinner.

Mirana allows her maids to dress her for bed and tuck her in. She's so overwhelmed with worry and doubt and fear and rage – that rotten, selfish, disgusting Oshtyer! – that when a drawling voice whispers in her ear, she nearly cries out!

"I trust you're expecting me, Your Majesty?"

Mirana flinches, regards Chessur's apologetic grin, and says, "Yes. I'm sorry, I was just..."

"Don't worry about Alice, Your Majesty. I've already followed Oshtyer to his room where he's currently indulging in a liquor-aided temper tantrum. And Alice is safe in _her_ room where I plan to look in on her as often as I can."

Mirana closes her eyes and releases a breath. "Thank you."

Chessur acknowledges the appreciation with a flick of his tail. "And now, I'm afraid it falls to me to inform you of tomorrow's schedule."

"Yes, please!" Mirana whispers, eager for some _good _news.

"Early tomorrow morning, Japsien's forces will move out in order to reach the battlefield by brillig. After they depart, you will follow Mallymkun out of the castle where Alfred and Fenruffle and two dozen of your guard will be waiting to escort you back to Mamoreal. You'll ride hard and should arrive at the castle before nightfall."

Mirana frowns. "But I'm to stand beside Jaspien at the battle on the morrow, how...?" The queen stops. Her eyes widen and she stares at Chessur, speechless.

The cat shrugs and gives her an apologetic grin. "Yes, I'm afraid so, Your Majesty. The only comfort I can give you is that this was not _my _idea."

"But it is the best one," Mirana has to allow, considering the advantages and opportunities it will afford.

"So it would appear, despite my objections."

Mirana closes her eyes and sighs. "Very well." Taking her time opening them, the queen suggests in a steely tone: "Perhaps you'd be so good as to explain exactly _how _you learn someone's shape?"

"Ah, yes, of course, Your Majesty..."

* * *

[End of Chapter 6: Scene 1 of 3]

* * *

**Author's Note:** For those of you who are DYING to know exactly how Chessur learns a shape... well, sorry. You're going to have to wait a bit more. (^_~)


	52. Book 2, Messages before Battle, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Six: Messages before Battle**_ [Scenes 2 & 3 of 3]

Mirana hears the knock on the door hopefully for the very last time! Dawn has just begun its entrance over the horizon and all is ready. She presses herself against the wall behind the door and watches as the _other_ White Queen yawns and swings it open with a sleepy smile.

"My dear Jaspien!" Mirana hears her doppelganger sigh.

"Good morning, Mirana. How did you sleep? You look exhausted." The man actually sounds concerned for her. Mirana once again receives a visit from Guilt.

_How can you feel sorry for the man who's been holding you prisoner?_

But he'd also protected her from Valereth's ambition and Alice from Oshtyer's aggression...

_How can you defend the man who has turned your Alice into a weapon?_

Ah... of course. There _**is **_no excuse for that. The guilt evaporates as quickly as it had arrived.

"I'm fine, fine! I was just so worried about today... Did _you_ sleep well, sir?"

"I enjoyed the rest of the soon-to-be-victorious," he replies with happy confidence. Mirana imagines his face must be the most animated it's ever been and almost misses seeing that, but she stays pressed against the wall, hidden by the open door.

"Yes, victory..." the queen breathes. "And we'll be together to see it?"

"Yes, my dear."

"Then let us be off! I'd like to wish Alice all my best before we depart!"

And then the door closes behind them.

Mirana relaxes against the wall and marvels that the lock hadn't been turned automatically, as it always had been before! But then, there's no reason for anyone to think Mirana is _not _gliding toward the courtyard on the prince's arm...

If there had been a clock in the room, Mirana would have listened to it, counted the ticks and compared the tocks. But as there is none, the queen counts at whatever pace she likes, pausing to contemplate the drapes – which she'll never have to pretend interest in again! – and consider the pillow which has seen the last of _her _tears!

And then – _finally! –_ Mirana hears the scratching of a hatpin against the door. She opens it and Mallymkun saunters in. "Well, good morning, Your Majesty!"

Mirana chuckles. "It is a _very _good morning," she agrees.

"If you'll follow me, I'll take you down to Alfred now that the yard is clear and you'll be back at Mamoreal in no time at all!"

"Lead the way, Mally!"

They encounter no one as they exit the castle. Even the maids appear to be enjoying the morning off gossiping in the kitchens (if the echoes of laughter in the first floor halls are to be believed).

"... and then Lassling says, 'G'on an'touch me ye filthy slithin' scut-grobbin', tove egg-suckin' scrum, but I won'be givin' tha'hand back teh ye!'"

"No!"

"She didn't!"

"Aye, she did! Heard it me-self!"

Mally pauses beside the castle door and they share a look. "Alice was a different Alice here, wasn't she?" the dormouse whispers. "Chessur said so."

The queen only nods.

"Well, at least she finally learned how to swear!"

And then – when more peals of laughter erupt from the kitchens at the back of the fortress – Mirana pulls open the door and steps outside. They hurry, keeping to the walls and keeping their eyes on the battlements, but the few guards up top are deeply engrossed in what appears to be a card game. There's a determined nod from Mally and then, in a moment of heart-racing daring, they've raced across through the main gates, over the drawbridge, and into the murky swamp where Mirana is suddenly being nuzzled by her very _good _companion, Alfred d'Mimserlet.

"I missed you terribly, Your Majesty," the horse wickers. "Had a stomach ailment the entire time!"

"Oh, dear... How is your tummy now, Alfie?" she croons, marveling at how easy her escape had been, in the end.

"Right as rain, Your Majesty," he insists, gently bussing her cheek.

"Well, well, all right! Let's not dawdle! And _you, _Dormouse, have got things to be doing!" Fenruffle reminds them all.

"Aye, aye, _sir!_" Mally salutes and then scrambles aboard Bayard and grabs his collar. "To battle, hounds of war!" she cries, swishing her sword.

The blood hound rolls his eyes. "There's only the one of me, Mally."

"Well, yes, I _had _noticed that! Figure of speech."

"And put that thing away before it ends up through my ear."

"Oh... right. Sorry." Mally tucks away her hatpin, wraps her arms around the ring in the dog's collar. "Fairfarren, Your Majesty!"

And with that, they're off. Mirana watches Bayard dash down the road and disappear around the bend before enjoying a contented sigh.

Turning, Mirana smiles at Fenruffle. He clears his throat and jangles Alfred's reins meaningfully. She mounts her steed. "Thank you, my friend, for arranging all of this."

"Me? I'm only following orders," the gryphon replies stiffly, signaling the guard to move out.

"Oh?"

"Yes, he might be the maddest son of a Witzend woolgatherer, but that Hatter knows a thing or two after all..."

Mirana's happiness and relief and pride cannot be contained in a mere smile_._ "Yes," she agrees. "He certainly does!"

And with a gentle nudge to her steed, they begin the journey home.

* * *

The battlefield stretches out before him just on the other side of the line of trees and brambles. The sky is overcast and seems to hang so low that it tempts the scraggly weeds into reaching for it from between the ill-fitting and crumbling cracks of the stone squares. Tarrant fights back his memories of this place – too many to deal with all at once! – and turns toward the young blood hound galumphing out of the depths of the forest.

"How close?" he asks Bayne.

"Another... hour," he manages before slumping off in search of a water bowl.

Tarrant scans the southern edge of the field where King Aven's forces have already gathered.

"I still think we should go introduce ourselves," Nivens asserts.

Tarrant shakes his head. "Nae, 'tis a proud people, there. Th'willnae accept help from _us_."

The rabbit glowers and crosses his arms over his vest. "We ought to tell them the plan. They _may _be willing to assist us." Grumbling, Nivens adds, "Fate knows we could use a bit."

"An'jus'who woul'ye suggest we ask, hm?"

Contemplating his feet, Thackery belches something that sounds suspiciously like "Champion!"

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Tarrant politely inquires.

"Avendale's Champion!" Thackery manages, staring at his feet. "... _toes!_"

"Oh, yes! _Excellent _suggestion, Thackery!" Nivens praises. "Why, that fellow _had _looked rather friendly in the sketch Alice sent. I'm sure he'll hear us out."

Tarrant opens his mouth to object but hears himself say only, "I d'nae know what he looks like."

Nivens gapes. "You never bothered to take note of his face?"

Tarrant clears his throat and calms himself. "Well, actually, you see..."

"_Too friendly!_" Thackery explains.

"Ah, yes, I wasn't exactly... _encouraged _to pay much attention to his image, as, well, the others felt he was a bit..."

"Standing _too _close to our Alice! Booly-geber!"

Tarrant startles and turns on the hare. "I _beg your __**pardon!**_"

Thackery twitches guiltily.

_"Booly-geber?_" Tarrant parrots. "Ye di'nae tell me th'fellow'as behavin' _inappropr'tly with __**me WIFE!**_"

Thackery twitches once more, blinks, and inquires, "Feet?"

"Now, now, calm _down,_ Hatter! I'm sure it was just... artistic license or some such arbitrariness and... _Wait! Where do you think you're going?_"

Tarrant pushes aside a tangle of branches and strides toward the army already camped on the edge of the battlefield. "I'm goin'teh hav'a few _words_ wi'th'lion who'ad his _paws on MY ALICE!_"

"Oh, _thwimble fumpt!_" Nivens swears. "Come along, Earwicket. This was _your _idea!"

"String?" the hare confirms.

"No."

"Feet?"

"_No._"

"_Toes?_"

"_No!_" Nivens growls, "For the love of all Underland, Earwicket, can't you remember your own suggestions?"

"_We're all late f'r TEA!_"

Tarrant can hear the rabbit and the hare struggling through the dense brush of wood after him. But he doesn't slow down as he charges toward the lines of armed soldiers in the Shuchland livery.

"Hatter! You don't even know what the beast _looks like!_"

"I'll ask f'r directions," he snarls.

"Madness, madness! All around us!" Thackery insists.

Nivens bounces ahead and manages to block Tarrant's path. "Don't you _dare_ walk over me, Hatter! Now, as Thackery has had the best look at the sketch, he and _I _will go and locate this fellow and have a few words with him. You will stay here and _stay out of it!_" With a decisive nod which is no doubt meant to signal the end of the issue, Nivens hooks his paw under Thackery's quivering elbow and hops away.

For a moment, Tarrant just stands there on the overgrown path, with the fluttering purple banners of the Shuchish Army just _barely _visible through the brush and branches.

_Are you actually going to listen to that twitchy twit, lad?_

What? Oh, well... when it's put that way...

Setting his jaw, Tarrant resumes his mission: find Avendale's Champion, meet him, and then make him regret ever meeting Alice. Yes, a very nice, clear, non-arbitrary set of objectives. His mind has no trouble whatsoever staying focused on his task.

Tarrant pushes through the brush, heedless of the way the thorns and branches try to grab onto his jacket and pull him back. He doesn't have to go far before he hears Niven's squeaky voice and Thackery's abrupt mumbles.

Not bothering to draw his sword (he'll only recall putting it on after the fact, actually, much to his regret) Tarrant crashes through the last Thrambleberry bush – _not in season_, he muses sadly – and then he _finally_ has that despicable booly-geber in his sights.

"... and so, if you could please _not _kill our Alice for a bit, well, no, that is, we'd rather you didn't at all! You see, we have –"

"Toes on strings!" Thackery interrupts.

"I... _excuse me?_" Avendale's Champion rumbles.

"Be _quiet, _Earwicket! _You _did the finding, now _I'll _do the explaining so allow me to finish before Tarrant gets tired of waiting and –"

"Follows you maybe?" he can't resist interjecting.

Nevins squeaks and folds in on himself, ears drooping down his back. Thackery spasms and falls to the ground behind the White Rabbit in a classic duck-and-cover maneuver. Tarrant doesn't care. He has his eyes – a rather arresting shade of orange, if he'd had to guess – on the warrior in front of him.

Despite the Shuchish armor (which makes him looks quite impressive, indeed), Tarrant doesn't even consider _not _giving this creature every ounce of hostility he has in his stores. (And he's been storing up, too!) Looking the lion down and then back up, noting the powerful build and considerable height, the thick mane and golden eyes, Tarrant realizes that he's never _loathed _anyone or anything quite this _bitterly _before. Oh, he'd _hated _the Bloody Big Head. He'd _despised_ Ilosovich Stayne. But when he'd thought of those two, Tarrant had tasted acidic ash on his tongue, not this bitter, sour, fiery... _thing._

"And just who are you?" the Champion demands, his great, furry paw on his scimitar.

Tarrant smiles. "I'm the man in charge of returning Alice to her rightful place in Mamoreal –" _And away from __**you!**_ "– so I'd suggest you hear us out because if _you come between us and Alice __**we will hunt you down and REMOVE YOUR SCARLESS PELT ONE—!"**_

"HATTER!"

With a _great _effort, Tarrant bites back the storm of threats. "_I'm fine,_" he manages with a brief glare at the White Rabbit.

"Relax," the Champion tells him shortly. "It's all under control. No one will harm Alice. I'll take care of her."

_Oh... __**RAGE!**_

_Why, hello!_ Tarrant thinks in the instant that precedes the wave of burning fury that scorches through him.

There's a sudden motion, a collision, an abrupt and inexplicable numbness in his hand, the sound of a scuffle, and a muffled exclamation.

When Tarrant blinks next, he sees Avendale's Champion leaning against a tree, massaging his nose, and glaring at Tarrant. Belatedly, the inexplicable numbness in his right hand becomes explained when an attempt at uncurling his fist heralds a stomach-rolling bout of nauseating pain.

_Broken, then_, he muses then dismisses the fact as irrelevant.

"Just _who _do you think you _are_, you mad bastard?" the Champion growls, straightening and once more gripping the pommel of his Shuchish sword.

Eyes narrowed, Tarrant tears the glove from his left hand with his teeth and mutely presents the back of it to the he-lion.

Those golden eyes focus on the dark red heart line, then flicker to Tarrant's still-burning gaze, and finally back to the heart line again.

"I don't believe this..." he mumbles.

Tarrant removes the glove from between his teeth and clenches his fist so tight around it he feels his entire arm ache. "Believe it'r no'ye'll nae ge'in th'way o'our bringin' Alice _home._" And while Tarrant has the beast's undivided attention, he tells him the plan, resists the urge to spit in his mane, and then turns around to head back to the Queen's Army, waiting silently in the woods.

* * *

[End of Chapter 6]


	53. Book 2, Release, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Seven: Release **_[Scene 1 of 4]

_This should have been harder_, Leif muses to himself as King Aven's Champion stares at him in complete disbelief.

"I don't think I heard you correctly, _Champion _Avenleif," his uncle growls.

"No, I'm sure you did."

The King's Champion narrows his eyes. "No, _my kinsman _and _loyal servant of the family of Aven _would **never **ask me to forsake my oath... for a _woman._"

"I do not ask you to –"

"You ask me to spare her life! In a battle to the death! You ask me to forsake our king!"

"No, only... There is another way..."

His uncle's lips curls in disgust. "Get out of my tent, nephew. I have a duel to prepare for."

Even though his uncle turns away from him, Leif doesn't move. _Can't move._

"I will _beg_ you, Uncle Resh, _please..._"

The older lion suddenly whips around and boxes Leif's ears. The shame at being treated like a cub speaking out of turn should have eclipsed whatever selfish desire that had made him give voice to it, but it doesn't.

_This ought to be harder,_ he thinks as he keeps his eyes open, his head up, his back straight. "Please, spare Alice, uncle. I will do _anything_ in exchange."

Avenresh's paws curl into fists. "You dishonor our family with this... _request._"

"Call it what it is! _A plea! __**I am begging you to spare her life!**_"

"It is not permitted for any other than the victor to live!" Resh growls in his face. "Would you have me throw away our family and our kingdom for the object of your lust?"

"It's not lust. Alice is –"

This uncle lifts a paw as if to strike him again, but Leif does not flinch in anticipation of the pain and humiliation.

"She is the Champion of Prince Avendale's betrothed," he concludes, striving for a rational tone.

"That's not what it said on the Issuance of Challenge and you know it, nephew. She belongs to Jaspien now. And she'll die for him for I will _never see our kingdom in the pale, weak, worthless hands of that_ _**pretender!**_"

He can't let the argument go. Not now. Not until he _wins._ "And how did they threaten her queen to force her obedience? Do _not _tell me you wouldn't do the same in the presence of the enemy, in the absence of immediate rescue for your liege!"

"It's a risk all Champions take, Leif," Resh says not unkindly. "You know this." He shakes his head. "Let it go. You cannot save her from her fate."

Arguments and logic and honor exhausted, Leif sinks to his knees, raises his paws, lowers his head and pleads, "I am begging you, Uncle Resh. Please, please, please..."

His uncle's roar of frustration is muffled by his efforts to keep the others from hearing it and interrupting this scene. Leif isn't surprised that his uncle would not want any witnesses to this. He would sooner cut off his own paw than allow _any _Aven to experience public humiliation.

"Perhaps I _should _let you go out there and fight her. Let _your Alice _kill _you, _you worthless, miserable, shadow of an Aven!" Avenresh turns away. "Get out."

Leif lowers his arms. Against his thighs, his paws tense.

He cannot go. Not without...

He watches as his claws slowly extend.

_Are you honestly going to...?_

Leif looks up, judges the distance between himself and his uncle.

_I am, _he answers himself and springs.

The struggle is brief and silent. An elbow across back of his uncle's skull knocks him out. Leif leans over the unconscious lion and blinks. It had all happened so fast he's not even winded.

_It should have been harder,_ he wonders, staring at what he'd done.

Numb, Leif stands and dresses in his uncle's battle armor. He's lucky it nearly fits perfectly. With the helmet in place, no one will realize that the lion in the suit of the King's Champion is a traitor. Leif hopes he doesn't have to speak before the first clash of swords, hopes the wind doesn't pick up and blow his scent to the king, for those are the only weaknesses in his plan. Were someone to realize he is _not _who he appears to be _before_ the duel starts...

_You must succeed_, Leif demands of himself. _Or Alice will die._

He kneels and secures his uncles arms and legs then silences him with a gag. With that, his betrayal is utterly complete.

_They will kill you for this,_ he knows.

But it's too late. For what he has done already, he will be disowned, banished, forgotten. In that order.

_Death will be easier._

Still, it shouldn't have been this easy.

Leif closes his eyes and thinks of her – Alice – the woman for whom he never thought he'd throw away everything that had ever mattered to him. When he'd first seen her at Mamoreal, he had nearly burst out laughing, for this _mere child-woman_ could not have possibly slain the Jabberwocky! Her duels had been lacking in power and finesse – only her resourcefulness and will had saved her from Oshtyer's malice and Jaspien's ineptitude. And when she'd arrived at Avenfaire, he'd nearly laughed again for he could not believe this _girl _playing at _warrior_ could have garroted Ilosovich Stayne! Not with those weak arms!

But then... then he'd seen the scars on her right hand – the sort that come from a cut so deep and precise only a sharp wire could have made them – and he'd started to believe. And once he had, everything else had come after it: wonder, hope, awe, respect, affection, and finally...

There, on the knoll in the Royal Orash Grove, he'd nearly offered her his First Claw. He'd had no reason not to: she'd never spoken of another and, honestly, who _else _would a Champion mate with besides _another _Champion? Who else would be able to watch their _wife_ go off to war? It had all seemed so obvious. So obvious that there had been no reason for him not to allow himself to love her, to want her...

But now he knows; there _is _a reason.

_You covet another man's bond-mate!_

Leif lowers his head in shame. He had tried to convince himself that it might still be possible for them... Perhaps the Thrice a-Vow had been a necessity? Alice is not from Underland; perhaps she'd needed a grounding presence to help her here? Perhaps her heart, though held in the hands of another, might still beat for Leif? One day?

With a low growl, he curses himself for this weakness she has created in him. He wishes it made a bit of difference in his regard for her. But it doesn't. He still wants her. So much that he can't even feel apologetic about it. There had been no shame when he had begged for her life and, he realizes, he would do it all over again. Gladly. Willingly.

For Alice.

He remembers that moment again, in the orchard. Had the prince not given his First Claw to the White Queen at that moment, it would have been Leif on his knees offering his own to Alice. But, seeing the prince perform that same rite, Leif had paused for he had wanted to offer himself in a moment that belongs to Alice completely. He'd assumed he'd have time, for they'd soon be comrades at Mamoreal. He'd assumed he'd have the rest of his life to find that moment for her. For them.

He closes his eyes and swallows thickly.

No, that moment will never be. The instant he'd seen her heart line, he'd realized it. She'd already... She's already someone's...

_Someone else's Alice._

When he opens his eyes and regards his crimes, Leif wonders at himself: It should have been so much harder to destroy himself so completely for a woman he will never have.

He wants to believe it's possible; she might come to him someday. Her blood-bonded husband might be more of a brother than a lover. He'd have to share her with that man, whoever he is, but perhaps... Leif thinks he might be able to live with that if he were sure of Alice's affections...

If he cannot have her heart, then, perhaps she might offer him her soul?

_No, it's too much to ask for._

It is. Undoubtedly. But he hopes for it nonetheless. And that is why he'd donned this armor. One way or another, he's going to get Alice and himself out of this duel alive and well, even if he has to abscond from the battlefield with her slung over his shoulder!

And after that...

Her Champion's vow to that fiend Jaspien will have to addressed somehow as will Leif's punishment for betraying his country...

Well, what comes after will come, as it inevitably must.

"Champion Avenleif?" a small voice whispers.

Turning, Leif spots the pale face of a white rabbit at the tent's curtain. Hesitantly, he nods, wondering what could possibly persuade a small herbivore to venture _here_.

"Oh, excellent! We have urgent news. It's about..." He leans back and glances nervously around. "It's about _Alice._"

Leif feels a wry smile pull at his mouth. Yes, if Alice could inspire betrayal of one's kinsmen and homeland, she could certainly inspire a rabbit to risk its life in the company of lions.

"Not here," Leif says, knowing that the rabbit hasn't yet seen the form of his uncle which he'd rolled into a murky corner. He dons his uncle's helmet and steps out of the tent. He checks to be sure, but no one is watching; they're all respecting the Champion's right to mentally prepare himself for the upcoming fight.

When he glances down, he's surprised to see not only a white rabbit valiantly fighting against his instinct to run, but a severely distressed brown hare. "Lead the way," he invites them and a few moments later, in a secluded break in the trees, holding his helmet under his arm, Leif tries his best to understand their message.

"There is a plan. Everything has been prepared," the white rabbit begins.

"No _string!_" the hare insists. "We cannae start wi'out the _string!_"

"We'll get to that presently, now _hush!_" The hare quiets under his companion's glare, and the white rabbit clears his throat and begins to state his request, a request he would never have had to make, a request to _not _kill Alice. Of course Leif will agree, but why in the world is this mangy rodent going on and on about _string?_

"Be _quiet, _Earwicket! _You _did the finding, now _I'll _do the explaining so allow me to finish before Tarrant gets tired of waiting and –"

"Follows you maybe?" a man's voice suddenly announces.

Leif turns and tenses. The man entering the clearing could engender nothing but extreme caution in a warrior. His wild, orange hair – unkempt and loose around his shoulders – and his burning orange eyes and the gentle, eerie grin on his pale, oddly smudged face are... terrible. Yet, something about this man seems familiar. Yes, Leif has seen him before...

"And just who are you?" Leif says, irritated both that the white rabbit _still _hasn't managed to tell him the vital information he'd promised and that he can't help feeling a thrill of unease in this Outlander's presence.

The smile widens and _threatens_. "I'm the man in charge of returning Alice to her rightful place in Mamoreal –" And at this point his eyelids and the skin under his eyes darken to nearly black. "– so I'd suggest you pay attention because if _you come between us and Alice __**we will hunt you down and REMOVE YOUR SCARLESS PELT ONE—!"**_

Leif has to stop himself from drawing his sword.

"HATTER!" the rabbit and hare cry at the same instant.

_Hatter..._ Yes, Leif recognizes this man now. One of the artisans in the White Queen's court. The hat-maker. The mad hatter. But _this _madness is not what he remembers. Sudden giggles, far-off daydreaming looks, fluttering hands and extravagant gestures... _that_ is what Leif recalls, not this... this... **fury.**

The man grins tightly and grits through his tea-stained teeth, "_I'm fine._"

Leif will eat his scimitar if that's the honest-to-Fate truth! Still, the man had interrupted an _important_ meeting. It's time to get things rolling again. He has to return to the tent before they call for him otherwise they'll find Resh unconscious on the floor next to the meditation mat.

He says, "Relax. It's all under control. No one will kill Alice. I'll take care of her."

The man's eyes flash crimson, his jacket darkens to pitch black, and in the next instant, he's...!

Too quick for Leif to dodge in the close quarters among the trees, the Hatter strikes him with his fist. White stars burst across Leif's vision as he staggers back. Noting the presence of the broadsword still slung across Outlander's back, Leif resists drawing his own weapon and contents himself with keeping the Hatter in his sights.

Leif isn't sure what to expect after that attack, but the Outlander merely blinks, shakes his head, and with a slight frown, examines his surroundings with eyes that are once again a dark orange.

_Wonderful. The fellow's completely off his head._

But, then again, what else could he expect from the White Queen's man? It had been obvious that she'd take in anyone, even the mad and un-reformable. Mamoreal had been – and likely still is – a security nightmare.

Leif glances at the Hatter's right hand, still curled into a fist and hopes the fool had managed to break it.

"Just _who _do you think you _are_, you mad bastard?" Leif challenges, standing tall and placing a threatening paw on his weapon.

He watches the Hatter warily as, instead of offering his name, the Outlander tugs his glove off with his teeth and, eyes sparking with victory and challenge and a darkness that could only be possession, obsession, and greed, answers Leif's question by presenting his heart line.

_His heart line._

"I don't believe this..." Somehow the words come out despite the sickening roll of his sinking stomach.

_Surely _Alice would not have permitted herself to be bound to this... this _freak!_ _Surely_ the queen cannot be _so _fond of this man's skills as a hat-maker that she'd ask her Champion to anchor his madness with the Thrice a-Vow! _Surely this is all some horrid misunderstanding!_

"Believe it'r no'ye'll nae ge'in th'way o'our bringin' Alice _home._"

Leif shakes himself. He tries not to imagine Alice's life with a man this unpredictable and violent. But rescuing Alice from her bonded husband must necessarily come _after _saving her life. Leif focuses on that.

Glaring, he manages to snarl, "What would you have me do?"

The Hatter tells him. And, as it turns out, it's a much better plan than Leif's.

_Damn it._

* * *

[End of Chapter 7: Scene 1 of 4]


	54. Book 2, Release, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Seven: Release **_[Scenes 2 & 3 of 4]

"Well, are you happy now, Tarrant?" Nivens demands irritably.

Tarrant grins. "Much."

The White Rabbit rolls his eyes. "That hand is _definitely _broken. How are you going to manage to get Alice out of the middle of that battlefield with only one hand, hm?"

Tarrant wanders over to a rook and, tapping it on the shoulder, inquires solicitously, "Would you happen to have a bit of Pain Paste, friend?"

The rook digs a pot out of his emergency rations and hands it over.

"Much obliged."

"That's not going to do much," Nivens insists, shadowing Tarrant.

The Hatter ignores him and, after applying the paste, hands the jar back to the rook then proceeds to wrap his right hand in the violently pink handkerchief he carries in his right jacket pocket.

"Well, at least switch your broadsword to the other shoulder so you can draw it with your left hand!"

"My broadsword..." Tarrant wonders softly. Yes, he'd completely forgotten about it. Which is just as well or Avendale might be in the market for another Champion at the moment and their plan to rescue Alice well and truly thwumpished!

Grumbling at himself, Tarrant maneuvers the sword without the aid of his right hand.

_Should've hit him with your left!_

"Aye." If he'd thought to choose between a broken right hand and a broken left, well...

_Remember that for next time, lad._

Tarrant grins. "Aye."

"What's he 'aye'in' to his-self over?"

He blinks at the sound of Mally's voice. "Oh, you're back! Excellent. How is...?"

"On her way home," the dormouse replies with confidence. "And by the time they realize they've been duped, Oshtyer's Jubjub won't have enough daylight left to be hunting her down!"

"Well done, Mally! Well done, Bayard!" Tarrant exclaims, noticing the winded blood hound.

"Not long now," Bayard pants. "They'll be coming over that hill soon."

"Wonderful!" And then he'll be able to see _his Alice!_ He tells himself not to expect a glowing smile and outstretched arms, for how could he, on this dreadful day, in these dire straights? But he'll see her again and, very soon, he'll have her in his arms and they'll be riding home on the Bandersnatch!

"What happened to your hand?" Mally asks, poking it with the pommel of her hatpin sword.

Tarrant hisses and flinches away from her.

Nivens answers for him: "He got into an altercation with Avendale's Champion."

"Oh, _Hatter!_ Why'd you let him break your hand when you've got that great, big broadsword of yours?"

_Why, indeed..._ Tarrant curses himself for not thinking of it. And then he curses himself for considering it at all when doing so would have only worked against their plan to retrieve Alice.

"Gallymoggers," he mutters.

"_String!_" Thackery insists. "I need me string f'r th'_toes_, Hatter!"

Nivens groans. "Why _are _you going on and on about string and toes, you mad March Hare? This situation is _serious!_ Alice and Jaspien's forces are due to come over the hill any minute and you indulge in this utter... _randomness!_"

"Not!" He twitches. "Not random gallymoggers! _You're LATE!_" Thackery shouts back. Then turning to Tarrant, the hare reaches into his jacket pocket and retrieves a small glass bottle. Offering it up, he says, "String, Hatter! _Nauw!_"

Tarrant's eyes widen and his mouth lifts into a smile. "Oh! Yes, yes, of course! My apologies, Thackery. You're quite on top of things as usual, aren't you? Here," Tarrant rapidly picks loose the ends of the spools of thread slung across his chest. Removing the entire lot from his jacket, he trades them for the bottle of Pishsalver. "And take Mally with you. She's quite small and fast and that hatpin might come in handy when you've a need to start a new stitch."

"Come, Mally!" Thackery commands, his eyes rolling and a mad grin showing his jagged, tea-stained teeth. "Toes on strings!"

Mally gives Tarrant a dubious glance before dashing after the hare.

"'Tis goin'teh work," Tarrant murmurs, eyes shining.

Still at his side, Nivens pets his own paws in an effort to calm himself.

Tarrant gives him an encouraging smile. "Go'an'ge'th'Bandersnatch."

With a nod, Nivens hops off into the woods. At the edge of the battlefield, Tarrant scans the west side of the checkered stones. Soon, the other army will crest over that hill and he wants to be able to see his Alice at the fist available opportunity.

_Alice... keep your promise._

For if she does her part, there's no reason for them to fail.

Still that doesn't prevent Tarrant's teeth from aching under the pressure of his tension or his left hand from cramping in its fist.

* * *

Ladies' attire, Chessur decides, is by far the cruelest torture he's ever undergone. Of course, with his spectacular evaporating skills, he's never had to endure much in the way of intentionally inflicted torment. And as it's not in his nature to inflict unpleasantness upon himself – he's a cat, after all! – of course he'd be uncomfortable in a corset. If only he'd thoroughly considered the purpose of a corset before agreeing to this wretched plan!

_And these stockings!_ He nearly growls as they rub against the beast's tack.

_Oh, I'm going to have saddle sores! Blast you, Tarrant, and your __**brilliant **__idea!_

Thoughts of revenge manage to distract him from his woefully unprotected skin – _Why don't people have a bit of fur to cover them? Highly convenient thing, fur..._ – and he manages to develop quite the repertoire of torment.

"You're very quiet, Mirana," Jaspien says as they approach the last – _Thank you, Fates of Underland! _– hill.

Chessur forces a nostalgic smile. "I was just remembering my last visit. My sister, you know..."

"Yes. I was very sorry to hear about her death. Stayne got what he deserved," Jaspien agrees.

_Were you __**truly **__sorry to hear of her death?_ Oh, what Chessur wouldn't give to be able to ask the question, but he hides it behind a serene smile. Being Mirana of Mamoreal is _highly _irritating, he acknowledges. _In more ways than one._

He shifts his gaze beyond Jaspien to where Alice rides astride a great bear who had, surprisingly enough, not grumbled in the slightest at being forced to bear her on his back. Chessur is _dying _to ask how Alice had managed to subdue the beast, for he is well aware of how those creatures think, having met one or a dozen in his life, and knows their pride is matched only by that of lions and pompous, self-important courtiers.

_A question for another time, _he sighs. Suppressing his natural curiosity is getting rather... painful.

To distract himself, he examines Alice's profile. Not once during the trip had she bothered to look around her. In fact, the few glimpses he's gotten of her had revealed nothing of her emotional state or thoughts. Of course, she'd perfected the mask she now wears. She'd had to. Otherwise the whole lot of them would know how wretchedly miserable she is without her Tarrant and how very much she curses her captors to the depths of the vilest pits in all of Underland.

Chessur stops himself from rolling the queen's dark eyes just in time. Still, he's thankful that _cats _don't fall in love. A thoroughly miserable state of being from start to finish. He's seen it often enough. It's, quite frankly, a miracle the other species have managed to survive the self-flagellation.

His wry and sarcastic musings do the trick, passing both the time and the chaffing rub of leather against his borrowed body. They come over the crest of the hill and approach the Underland battlefield. Along the southern border, Chessur takes in the well-ordered ranks of the Shuchland Army. He casts his gaze over the much smaller, scruffy, ragtag band of mercenaries Valereth had managed to hire and suppresses a snort. True, these undisciplined creatures might be considerably more... resourceful in a fight – The Grobben blossom Alice had used against Stayne comes to mind! Wonderful survival instincts that girl has! – but even _he_ can see how disciplined and well-prepared the Shuchlanders are. Of course, Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer are betting Alice will prevail over King Aven's Champion, saving them the trouble of a battle.

Chessur's characteristic grin makes an appearance before he can think better of it. Luckily, Jaspien and the other two are busy dismounting and no one notices.

With a nauseatingly dreamy smile, Chessur allows Jaspien to help the White Queen from the back of the farm horse he'd been provided for the journey.

"Where shall we watch from?" Chessur wonders aloud. "Not too close, I hope."

"No, no, of course not, my dear." However, Jaspien leads her to the front line. "Once the Challenge has been issued and formally accepted, we shall move back," he explains.

Chessur sighs with relief. "You won't mind? I'm sure the view won't be nearly as satisfactory for you..."

"I have no interest in watching. Only in victory."

Chessur says nothing to that. He again slides his gaze in Alice's direction. She'd dismounted the bear, who had taken up a position in the front line. Alice now stares blindly across the battlefield. Chessur can't afford to let himself stare at her – for the queen would never be so rude! – but it puzzles him that the girl hasn't once acknowledged the attention he's been paying her.

_She ought to be more observant!_ he huffs in silence.

Once the hired army has been assembled along the north side of the field, Jaspien pats Chessur's pale hand and strides toward the center of the stone-cobbled clearing. The cat doesn't pay any attention to the formalities.

"Alice..." he hisses.

The girl doesn't even seem to hear him.

"_Alice!_"

Nothing. Is she even _blinking?_

Chessur suppresses a groan. Oh, he'd known this was a bad idea! They'd waited too long and now Alice is lost inside her own head, inside the game she's been playing for days without respite.

_Have we lost her already?_

Chessur twists a lacy handkerchief and tries to keep his claws from breaking through Mirana's small, delicate fingertips.

_Just a bit longer, Alice._

For a moment, Chessur almost wishes for a heart line with which to send her a bit of hope and a boatload of strength. And then he wonders about Tarrant... Where is that damnable Outlander of hers? Shouldn't _he _be the one shoring her up at the moment? Well, a _fine _job he's doing of it if _this _the result. The girl's practically catatonic on her feet!

"Send forth your Champion!" King Aven roars, lifting a paw and gesturing his chosen fighter to the forefront. Jaspien does likewise.

As Alice moves to take a step forward, Chessur whispers, perhaps, a bit too loudly in Mirana's soft voice, "Listen well and heed what you hear, Alice!"

There's the smallest nod of recognition and then Jaspien's Champion approaches the center of the battlefield and the king's defender. Returning, Jaspien leads Chessur back behind the assembled forces as promised. The cat notices that neither Oshtyer nor Valereth care to join them. But of course, they wouldn't. Jaspien already has everything he wants. The future and fortunes on the line now belong to his two associates.

_Perfect,_ Chessur thinks, taking stock of the fact that every gaze is focused on the pair of Champions now circling each other. Were it not so painful to see the difference in size and quality of armor, Chessur might have been a bit put out at not being able to have a nice, clear view. Despite Tarrant's insistence to the contrary, Alice really is a pleasure to watch in a duel. Grace and calculation and swiftness and cleverness...

Chessur waits for it – the first clash of swords – and when it comes, he finally allows the mildly worried expression to melt from the queen's face. He feels his eyes begin to blur behind his closed eyelids. Carefully releasing his right arm from the prince's elbow – but keeping his left clenched around it tightly – the cat lowers the queen's thin arm between them, curves it behind the prince and _shifts _it.

It's a little frustrating trying to shape-shift just _one _part of the body. His own eyes and smile tend to come out quite naturally, but _borrowed _shapes, on the other hand, those take time and a great deal of concentration.

He tries to ignore the fight in the center of the field: each and every series of steps clattering against the stones, each and every crash of swords meeting then softer and equally abrupt hiss as they disengage.

Chessur closes his eyes and struggles with the forms at his disposal. Oh, he'd practiced before, but it had still taken quite a while for him to manage the transformation. This time is no different. However, several minutes later, it's a very satisfied and smug shape-shifting cat who – for all outward appearances – appears to be the White Queen, but in fact presses a very _wickedly sharp_ Jabberwocky claw between Prince Jaspien's thighs and against the family jewels.

The man startles and tries to pull away but Chessur's hold on his arm is quite firm.

"Mirana?" the man asks, glancing sideways at the queen.

Chessur grins the grin of his kind and reveals his luminous, aqua eyes. "I'm afraid not. And, unfortunately, if you don't do exactly as I instruct you to, I shall have the unmitigated pleasure of hurting you... _very __**badly.**_"

Chessur watches the man's Adam's apple bob. Sweat blossoms at the man's temples and Chessur is forced to admit, despite the corset and the saddle sores, Tarrant's plan really is quite... _rewarding_ after all.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7: Scenes 2 & 3 of 4]


	55. Book 2, Release, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Seven: Release **_[Scene 4 of 4]

"What's taking so long?" Nivens mutters, rubbing his paws so fast Tarrant might have wondered if the obsessive creature might just spontaneously combust if Tarrant's own attention weren't completely focused on the combatants on the battlefield and his own impatience weren't focused on a certain shape-shifting ally.

Tarrant keeps up a continuous heart line message to her – _Your promise! Fight and win, Alice!_ – and does his best not to flinch with each expertly executed attack by that wretched, Alice-lusting _guddler's scut_. Although even he can see that Avenleif is not even attempting to tire her, Alice counters with a ferocity Tarrant has never seen in her before. Not even when she'd fought that equally wretched, Alice-groping _slackush scrum._ Her broadsword – borrowed, he notices, and far longer and heavier than the one the queen had had made for her – slices through the air with frightening precision and force. Each thrust and slash a potential fatal blow. But despite that, the lion keeps his word and draws the fight out, stays out of her way, stretches Time...

"Oh...!" Nivens pulls at his long, white ears before consulting his pocket watch. "How long does it take to shape-shift a bloody _paw?_"

"Knowin'th'owner o'th'paw'n question, o'ly'slong's poss'ble," Tarrant growls.

Alice advances again and again Avenleif sidesteps. Waits.

A quick glance at King Aven assures Tarrant that the deception has been noticed. The king looks _furious_, but manages to stand tall and contained. On the other side of the field, Valereth and – Tarrant swallows back his burning fury – _Oshtyer_ are unashamedly grinning from ear-to-ear. No, they hadn't counted on Aven's Champion having an aversion to killing Alice, but the bastards aren't about to complain!

And just when Tarrant thinks he can take no more – just when he's sure the next clash of metal is going to shatter him like the bay window above Mirana's study – he hears a voice call out very clearly:

"I, Jaspien of Causwick Callion, do hereby release—"

Valereth hisses, gesturing furiously to the mercenaries nearest the prince. They startle and move toward him, but then, inexplicably, trip and fall to the ground before reaching him.

"—Alice Kingsleigh from my service from this moment hence forth!"

Oshtyer swears, then raises his voice and shouts, "Alice! Fight, Alice! Kill him!"

Tarrant turns back to the battle, expecting Alice to step back, drop her sword, and spit in the direction of those spineless _slurvish __**slurking URPAL—!**_

_**CRASH!**_

Startled, Tarrant blinks, for he must be experiencing delusions again – oh, how inconvenient a time for the madness to impose on him! – because Alice is _still __**fighting!**_

And not only that, but Tarrant feels his entire body tense, his eyes widen as he watches her _destroy _the Champion's defense. He gasps at the fury, the speed, the singular purpose of her attack.

_Sweet Fates, she's going to kill him!_

For an unforgivably long moment, Tarrant merely gapes, uncomprehending.

_But __**why is she STILL FIGHTING?**_

He doesn't know. He _doesn't __**know!**_

"Tarrant!" Nivens panics.

The Hatter doesn't take his eyes off of the battle as Alice charges, feints, and nearly takes the lion's paws off with a nasty backhanded slash. He only just manages to jump back in time.

"Alice!" Avenleif shouts. "Halt! You're free of your vows! _Halt!_"

But she doesn't.

"Something's wrong," Nivens despairs.

"Definitely," Chessur agrees, appearing. "I'd say she's in some sort of trance, but those stupid men don't know snail spit about Intentional Magic..."

Each thrust Alice executes comes that much closer to finding its mark. Each plea from the lion who falls back and gives ground again and again and again falls on seemingly deaf ears. And Tarrant suddenly knows what's going to happen:

Alice is going to kill Champion Avenleif.

And then she'll go back through the looking glass... forever.

_"No!"_

Tarrant charges out onto the battlefield, pulling his sword over his shoulder, sheathe and all! He doesn't notice Chessur and Niven's weak attempts to hold him back. He doesn't notice the ripple of surprise that passes through the assembled armies.

With another skull-cleaving slash, Alice manages to knock Avenleif backward with such suddenness that he stumbles over a broken stone and falls to the ground. His sword arm is down and Alice moves in, raising her broadsword in a furious swing...!

_**THWACK!**_

Tarrant winces under the impact of the broadsword against his still-sheathed weapon. Gritting his teeth, he thrusts up, wills his broken hand to comply, and pushes Alice back. She takes two light, retreating strides and regards him, panting.

Ignoring Avenleif as he stands again, Tarrant focuses on his wife, on her wide, frighteningly empty eyes, her pale, sweaty, colorless face, and says, "Alice. Alice, break. It's over. It's done. Come home."

For a moment, all is silent, perfectly still. Frozen.

For a moment, it seems as if she might have heard him.

For a moment, Tarrant hopes...

And then Alice _raises her sword and __**steps toward him!**_

"Bloody bulloghin'...!" he growls when he awkwardly knocks her blade to the side, clutching his broadsword in his left hand now.

Tarrant barely notices the chaos of movement along the north edge of the battlefield. The lines of mercenaries have turned into a churning mass of arms and hands and paws and swords.

_Ah, Thackery and Mally managed it, then,_ he barely has time to think before Alice is sending another cutting blow at him – at his knees this time.

"_Alice! 'Tis your Hatter! Stop this!_"

If she understands him, she shows no sign of it.

"Hafflaffen!" Avenleif shouts.

Tarrant twitches, wishing he could send a glare of irritation in the lion's direction. "_What?_"

"I smelled mint. She's been poisoned."

Tarrant's heart nearly stops. And then Alice very nearly takes off his head. If not for his regular attendance at Thackery's tea parties, and his extensive practice in ducking and diving, she very well _would have!_

"She's sensitive to suggestion!" Avenleif explains, stepping between Alice and Tarrant to draw her attacks. Although he doesn't _want _to feel thankful to that brutish coveting creature, _he does,_ for Tarrant desperately needs to **think!**

"Suggestion?" he shouts at no one in particular. What hell sort of bloody sense is that supposed to make? Oshtyer had told her to fight and kill. Avenleif had told her to halt. Tarrant had told her to break and come home! What other suggestion could there possibly be?

"A... vow! Oath! Promise!" Avenleif shouts over the clanging of their swords.

_A promise..._

Tarrant watches Alice pursue her opponent. She hunts him _mercilessly._ As if her life depends on it. As if the very Fates of Underland _will _it to be. As if... As if...

Tarrant starts. His hands choke the scabbard in his grasp. He gapes as the dream comes to him.

Alice, fighting.

The bell ringing.

Alice, falling...

He can see her arms are shaking. She's long past her strength, yet _something _gives her the _will _to continue. Something _drives _her – _**is driving her! **_– to the point of utter exhaustion, to the point of death. She will fight until there is no breath left in her body. And suddenly, Tarrant _understands _that bloody nightmare. Alice will not fall on his _sword!_ She will fall upon her _promise to __**him to FIGHT AND WIN AT ALL COSTS!**_

Again, she throws Avenleif back and – again! – he falls!

Discarding his sword, Tarrant leaps for her, grabs her arm, spins her around.

"Alice!"

His heel catches on a clump of weeds and he falls.

"I release ye from yer promise!"

The breath rushes out of him as his back crashes against the stones. Above him, Alice raises the sword.

"Ye d'nae hav'teh fight anymore!"

And the sword falls.

"Nor win! Raven!"

And stops.

Tarrant stares up at her, ignores the cold edge of the blade against his throat. "Alice..." he pleads. For if she does not come back to him now, she may as well kill him. The pain of losing her to this poison, this merciless madness, would be too much to bear.

Her lips move. The barest whisper of sound passes between them. "... hatter...?"

He's so relieved, he can only gasp and gaze up at her. Her eyes, as black as pitch and struggling to focus, finally – _finally _– **see him!**

"... why... writing desk... slightest..."

"Let go, Alice. I've got you now," he murmurs.

Her grip on the sword relaxes and it falls away. And then her eyes roll up toward the sky, her knees give out, and she slumps to the ground. Ignoring the throbbing pain in his right hand, Tarrant reaches for her, tries to save her from hurting herself on the stones but merely ends up having the breath forced out of him again as he lands on his back once more.

Tarrant closes his eyes for the briefest moment, inhales Alice's scent – _too minty! _– and tightens his arms around her. Oh, what he wouldn't give to just lie here with her in his arms, but she is not yet safe!

"Bandy!" he calls, struggling to his feet. To his surprise, Avenleif gives him a paw under his arm and another at his back rather than trying to take Alice from him. Tarrant glances at him, puzzled, then takes in the battlefield. The Shuchlanders look shocked and irritated. Jaspien's mercenaries are just now managing to stand up again, finally having cut through the web of sewing thread Mally and Thackery had strung their feet together with. The Bandersnatch crashes out of the woods.

"Go," Avenleif says, holding out his battered broadsword. "Get on. I'll hand her up to you."

Tarrant gives him a distrustful glance.

"_It's not safe for her here!_" the lion snarls and, in his anger, Tarrant sees the beast's honesty.

Trying his best not to think about what he's doing, Tarrant passes Alice to the lion, shoulders his broadsword, throws himself upon the Bandersnatch's back, and reaches back for her. Avenleif passes Alice to him without a moment's hesitation.

Wrapping his arms around her, gripping the Bandersnatch's fur in his left hand, Tarrant doesn't even think to thank the he-lion who had helped him save her, his Alice, his wife, the keeper of his heart.

"_GO!_" he shouts to the beast that would do anything for Alice, even race across half of Underland in a single evening.

And, it just so happens, that's precisely what the Bandersnatch does.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7]


	56. Book 2, Poisons, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Eight: Poisons**_ [Scene 1 of 4]

Mirana believes in being prepared for any potential eventuality. After her horrible mistake just two months ago, when she'd sent her Champion off to defeat the Jabberwocky in utterly preventable ignorance, she had taken to consulting the Oraculum religiously.

Which is why the entire episode – the abduction, the training, the duel – is so utterly baffling. Before their departure, Mirana had indeed gazed upon the Oraculum. She had very nearly taken it with them, but had left it behind in Absolem's care again instead.

With half of her laboratory now in Alice and Tarrant's apartment, awaiting the return of her Champion and her Hatter – fearing one or both of them might be seriously injured – Mirana has nothing left to do except... wait. And think about the Oraculum.

She wanders out onto the balcony overlooking the castle gates and peers through the spyglass but nothing moves on the darkening horizon.

A blue butterfly flutters next to her, landing on her shoulder. She very nearly brushes him off in irritation.

"You were supposed to _warn _us," she scolds him.

His antennae uncurl, become rigid with irritation.

Mirana arcs her brows in disbelief. "Are you telling me you _didn't notice_ that the events foretold had _changed?_"

His wings beat once, furiously. She can only imagine what he would have said were he still capable of speech. He leaves her shoulder, lands on the balcony railing and begins pacing in agitated steps, his wings held rigidly upright.

Mirana sighs and forces herself to let go of her anger, for it will accomplish nothing. "I'm sorry, Absolem. I know how devoted you are to your position as Steward of the Oraculum."

He stops pacing, turns to face her and his antennae jab in her direction.

"All right," she says, meeting his challenge. "How many days ago did you realize Alice and I would be taken?"

Absolem flaps his wings very deliberately once, twice...

Mirana counts them, then counts the days backward. When she arrives at his answer, her eyes widen in disbelief. "Oh! On the fifteenth day of the trip! The day we departed Shuchland..." She frowns, considering the situation. Clearly, the partnership between the three men and the enlistment of the mercenaries had happened at a _much_ earlier time. But why hadn't the Oraculum foretold their planned attack?

And then Mirana understands: the Oraculum had not foretold it because the day on which it would occur had not been decided yet. And, in fact, the timing of it must not have depended too greatly on the days and events leading up to their departure for Shuchland. So, something must have happened _in_ Shuchland to force their hand.

Something, like... maybe...

She thinks of Dale's First Claw and, unthinkingly reaches for her neck, but she knows it's not there. It had been left behind at the inn in the confusion of the impending attack. Sadness and regret steal her breath. She hopes someone has found it, will return it to her...

She sighs and turns her mind back to the mystery of the Oraculum and wonders if the attack had come because Jaspien had heard of her betrothal and had feared Mirana and her realm had been slipping further and further away from him.

Still, she had made no secret of the trip at all before departing. Rumors had been flying across the countryside for _weeks _beforehand. Many had _expected _her to leave that land after promising her hand in marriage to the youngest Aven. And yet the Oraculum had not revealed a warning.

"Something must have happened while we were in Shuchland to set all of this in motion," she finally decides. On the railing, Absolem's antennae relax into a gentle curl once more. "Although I'm afraid I have no idea what that might be. I shall have to consult with Alice. Perhaps she will have a suggestion..."

Distractedly, Mirana peers once more through the spyglass. Just as she is about to sigh and turn away (_again!_) a motion catches her attention. She steadies the apparatus with her other hand and gasps as a large, bounding white blur crests over the rise and grows larger and larger in its approach to the castle.

"They've returned!" Mirana explains and drifts as quickly as she can down to the main entrance. The Bandersnatch wobbles up the grand, sweeping steps just as the queen swings open the doors. "You're injured!" Mirana gasps, noting the pink handkerchief stretched taut around Tarrant's right hand. "And Alice! _Alice?_" Mirana reaches forward to help brace Alice against the panting sides of the Bandersnatch when Tarrant lowers her then follows her down in the next instant. All it takes is one whiff of her Champion's matted hair, one glimpse of the utter pallor of her face, and one touch to her cold, clammy cheeks for Mirana to arrive at a diagnosis.

"Hafflaffen," she spits out in disgust. "That rotten collection of slime from a listless snail!"

"Your Majesty?" Tarrant asks in a strained tone.

"Later, Tarrant. If you can't help me get her up to your apartment, then at least help me get her into the kitchen." She runs her fingers over Alice's glistening forehead the lifts them to her mouth for a taste. Spitting to clean her mouth, she mutters, "No, not the usual remedy for this... _Why _must Uplanders be so _contrary?_"

Mirana fits herself under Alice's left side as Tarrant pulls her right arm over his shoulders. Together, they drag Alice into the kitchen. "Pondish, the large bath tub if you please, in the kitchen. Lakerton, heat the water for a _very _warm bath. Algernon, you may collect my things from Mr. Hightopp and Alice's apartment and bring them back down here."

Each creature rushes off to do her bidding. Mirana determinedly puts one foot in front of the other, wishing she had scheduled a bit more exercise into her routine.

"Your Majesty?" Tarrant asks again, his demand to understand slowly eclipsing his exhaustion. At least, that's what it sounds like. Mirana is glad of it. She'll need his help.

"Are you otherwise injured, Tarrant? Or is it just your right hand, which, from the swelling, I'd have to say is broken."

"Aye, 'tis. And it's the only thing wrong wi'me."

"Then I'm afraid it will have to wait until we've dealt with Alice."

"I wouldnae have it any other way." They take two more steps before Tarrant demands, "Who poisoned her?"

"Are you sure you want to know _now?_" she asks. "I need you to focus or Alice's health will be in serious jeopardy."

He nods once. Mirana notices his jaw is set. "Ye can tell me. I'll only wonder if ye don't."

"Oshtyer," she informs him, reaching out and pushing open the kitchen door. Pondish had worked fast and Mirana is relieved to see the old, battered bath tub set up beside the stove where several buckets of water are already heating.

"Arms out, straight in front of you, Tarrant," the queen orders and leans Alice back against his chest with her arms draped over his. Mirana hurriedly works on the buckles of Alice's leather armor. The bits that resist too much are sawed through with a root knife. Mirana doubts Alice will want to keep the memories that come with the attire anyway. The queen removes every stitch of clothing from Alice before directing Pondish and Lakerton to fill the bath. She checks the water temperature, adds a bit of cool water, mixes it, then reaches for Alice's knees. Tarrant gently lowers his wife into the bath.

"Up to her neck," the queen directs, then hands him a cloth.

It's only when she turns back around with her own cloth in hand that she realizes why he hasn't spoken for the last ten minutes. Tarrant Hightopp stares at his wife's nude body, his eyes a burning acidic orange as he catalogues each and every bruise, both fresh and nearly a week old.

"Tha'bloody cat tol'me they werenae hurtin'er..." he growls.

"I don't think they did," Mirana assures him, dipping her cloth in a basin of hot water and wiping at Alice's face then rinsing it out again.

Tarrant gapes at her for a moment before soaking his own cloth in a bucket near his knee and wringing it out over Alice's hair. He then wipes the rivulets from her slack face. "But _look_ at her!" he whispers fiercely.

"Tarrant, each and every one of these bruises is a mark of _victory._ Each bruise she received marks each assault she _won_. Be thankful Oshtyer was not permitted to have his way or I would be truly fearful to find out how much of our Alice might have survived that place."

"Tha'bastard will _pay_..." Tarrant promises silently.

Mirana doesn't doubt it. "More hot water, please, Pondish. Ah, Algernon, the bottle of citrus extract."

She pours six drops onto the surface of the water and watches as the faint, lavender-blue oil slick that had begun to shimmer on the surface of the water dissolves.

"What is that?" Tarrant asks as he accepts another steaming bucket of water and continues wiping Alice's face after rinsing her hair.

"A very good guess," Mirana admits. "Alice's biology is different from ours. Had she been born in Underland, I'd merely need to dust her skin with Hafflaffen powder to draw out the poison. Unfortunately, it appears as if her body reabsorbs it too easily once it's perspired. When she cools, she merely takes in the poison again through her skin, doubling her symptoms. I can only guess how long she's been exposed, but every cycle of her body trying to expel it and the Hafflaffen re-entering it is like receiving dose after dose after dose."

Mirana looks up at Tarrant. His face is perfectly white, his mercury stains look like streaks left by bloody tears, and his eyes are pale with fear. She can barely see the dark line of his lips where his mouth has compressed tightly.

"Did everything go as plan? Did she fight?" Mirana asks because she cannot believe Alice would have had the strength to manage that portion of the plan.

"No and yes," her Hatter answers. "She fought... she fought like th'world was ending." He swishes the cloth in his own bucket of citrus-treated water before collecting more hot water with it and treating Alice's face again. "My fault," he whispers. "Chessur did his part. Thackery'n'Mally did theirs... But she di'nae stop fighting... Nearly killed Aven's Champion." Tarrant's eyes flash, but he doesn't become distracted. "'Twas th'promise she made me that nearly killed her."

Mirana doesn't say anything to prompt a full confession. He delivers it nonetheless.

"Alice promised to fight as hard as she must to win. Promised me that on th'second day of her training. And I kept sending her heart line messages to _fight _an' to _win_ all through th'battle an'..." Mirana glances away as Tarrant's face twists into the most horridly miserable grimace she's ever seen on him. "'Twas _I_ who almost killed her. Alice..."

"Tarrant, you could not have known how that promise would react with Hafflaffen in Alice's system. No, _listen to me!_" When Tarrant lifts pale orange eyes of self-loathing to her gaze, Mirana informs him quite firmly, "There was no way to know. None at all. Now, does this water feel cool to you?"

He tests it and nods.

"Lakerton, the other tub, if you could? Pondish? Yes, more water on the stove. Thank you."

And so the night continues. Mirana and Tarrant haul an unconscious Alice from her current, cooling bath and into another hot one, over and over and over again. Despite Alice's wrinkling, pink skin, the surface of the water continues to shimmer with the pearlescent gleam of the poison still escaping from her body. Hours later, when Tarrant truly looks as if he's going to collapse at any moment, Mirana hands her cloth over to a severely uncomfortable Algernon and instructs him to keep rinsing Alice's hair and face.

"Come here, Tarrant. We must deal with your hand."

"But, Alice..."

"Is breathing easier and, last I checked, her pupils weren't so dilated. We have time. Sit."

He does.

Mirana cuts off the thoroughly soaked handkerchief and regards his swollen hand. "Definitely broken. How did this happen?"

"Oh, um, well..."

"Did Alice do this to you?" Mirana asks suddenly, horrified at the possibility.

Tarrant clears his throat and looks away. "No, I... no."

"Fine," the queen huffs. "_Don't _tell me. We'll just never mind the cure and leave it like this."

Tarrant winces. "I struck Avenleif. In the face."

"Which part?" Mirana asks with clinical detachment.

"His great, furry nose," he growls.

"With your fist?"

"Aye."

"All right. Wait here a moment." Mirana gets up and considers her stock of remedies then selects one bottle, a jar of powder, and a medicinal compress. Resuming her seat, she takes Tarrant hand in hers and narrates: "One drop of Green Envy for each knuckle, a sprinkling of Vengeance, and a bandage soaked in Rational Thought." She glances up as she presses the compress to the back of his pale hand. "I'm assuming you found out about Avenleif's... feelings for Alice and _that's _what brought on the sudden urge to break your hand against his nose?"

Tarrant bows his head. "Aye..."

Mirana gently lays his injured hand down on the table and pats his other. "Don't blame Alice, Tarrant."

His head snaps up. "What? Why would I? I don't..."

"Just so," Mirana replies, seeing the truth in his eyes. "Alice kept her heart line a secret because the dear was driven to distraction wondering if someone might try to harm you while she was away." Mirana sighs. "I almost wish Stayne could be killed all over again for making her fear for you so much."

"Ye're not th'only one who'd like to see him dead all o'er again," Tarrant agrees.

Mirana continues, "On the last day of our stay, I persuaded Alice to wear... oh, uhm, well, to reveal her heart line as we were among friends. Until then, until Avenleif saw it, Alice had _no idea_ of his intentions. Truthfully, neither had I, but I was... distracted..."

"It's all right," Tarrant tells her, surprisingly maintaining his grasp on calm rationality despite his obvious exhaustion. "He knows Alice is mine now."

Mirana nods and drifts back over to her supply chest. "We'll have to splint that hand," she warns him. "I know you won't like it, but Green Envy is notoriously unreliable when combined with Rational Thought." Tarrant manfully endures the wrapping of his right hand then helps the queen move Alice again into another tub of steaming water.

When dawn finally peeps in through the Witzend-facing windows, Alice groans a bit in protest when they switch her baths again and the cool air touches her skin. When they settle her into the next tub, she manages to open her eyes for the briefest moment. "Buttered fingers," she murmurs before falling asleep. Finally.

Mirana sighs with satisfaction. "This might be the last bath," she dares to tell her Hatter.

"And she'll wake up cured?"

"Let's hope so. I'd still recommend a hot bath every other hour whenever she can manage it. We don't want a relapse occurring."

He nods. Mirana notices how utterly exhausted he looks – his face is too pale and his hands shake with a fine tremor and his shoulders slouch – but she can't help but be cheered by the spark of hope in his once-again green eyes.

"I'll have Algernon make up one of the guestrooms on the ground floor. It'll be easier to manage the baths she'll need."

He merely nods again and, slumping down to the floor, curls his arm right arm across the back of the tub and gently cradles her flushed face in his left. Brushing his thumb over a the nearly-healed bruise that had been the first of many Alice had had to endure, he rasps, "Could we apply a bit of lotion to these bruises?"

"Not for a few days," Mirana replies regretfully. "It may interfere with her body's efforts to push out the poison."

"I don't want her to see these. Be reminded," he explains.

Mirana considers that. "I think she'll want them. She'll want to watch her body defeat those memories. After all, we did have the hardest time convincing Alice Underland and all of us were, in fact, real." Mirana considers her Champion and the man utterly devoted to her and her happiness. "It'd be cruel of us to take that hard-won reality away from her and replace it with shadowy nightmares that she cannot fight."

Tarrant lowers his forehead until it rests against the side of the tub and sighs.

"Your room will be ready soon," she promises.

Within the hour, Mirana helps Tarrant tuck Alice into bed before ordering him to lie down with her. As he sits on the edge of the bed and begins removing his shoes, the queen moves to the door, closing it only when she hears both boots hit the floor and the soft sigh of the mattress as he lies down on it.

"No one is to disturb them, Propinton," she instructs the lock.

"Yes, Your Majesty."

With a satisfied nod, Mirana heads for the stairs and her own room and a bit of rest before lunch... however, the clamor and clanking of dozens upon dozens of footsteps draws her back to the main entrance.

Seeing her, the Bandersnatch rouses and she pats him. "Alice will be fine; you did well getting her back home so quickly."

The beast sighs and closes his eyes, immediately falling into a light doze. Mirana wishes she were that lucky. But she waits on the front steps and, smiling, welcomes her army home and announces their success. The celebration will have to wait for another day, but that's no reason to withhold a well-deserved congratulations for a job well done.

* * *

[End of Chapter 8: Scene 1 of 4]


	57. Book 2, Poisons, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Eight: Poisons**_ [Scenes 2 & 3 of 4]

Alice dreams of floating adrift in a hot sea, of the spray of an ocean that smells like Orashes against her face. She dreams of an armchair that wraps itself around her back and shoulders and a glass of warm soup that tilts against her lips. She dreams of a whispering wind that somehow knows her name and combs her hair. She dreams of the gentle, tickling brush of cherry blossoms against her face.

_Tarrant..._

Yes, she'd left him under the boughs of one of the cheery trees lining the white stone drive leading to the castle, to Mamoreal, to home...

_Just a little further..._

She pushes against the Bandersnatch – not _now_, Bandy! – and throws herself through the so, _so_ soft drooping branches of the trees. The wind sighs to her against her ear. She'll have to ask Mirana to teach her the tree language they speak; it sounds so heavenly, so familiar... Like the pale line of a man's jaw, like the dark gap between his two front teeth, like the half-lidded gaze of radiant green she knows to expect just as he wakes from a sound sleep...

_Tarrant?_

Where is he? Why does he insist on waiting for her under _that _tree? The tree she'd left him beneath? Why can't she remember _which one _it is?

_Oh, botheration. This could take __**days!**_

She strains but the warm presence of the Bandersnatch holds her back, slows her down.

"Let go!" she demands. _Tarrant?_

And just like that, she's free. Alice experiences an instant of relief, of freedom, before the avenue lined with cherry trees fades before her eyes...

"_No!_"

... and a rough hand gently smoothes her hair away from her face.

"Alice? Have you decided to wake up now?"

Her lashes flutter but don't open. Too heavy. "No," she groans. "Looking for... Let me look..."

"You'll have to open your eyes for that, my Alice," the man's voice whispers.

She frowns. He sounds concerned and hopeful and does she hear a slight lisp...?

_No, _she decides. There is no lisp waiting for her there. After all, she has yet to find Tarrant, and he's waiting for her somewhere – here! – among the cherry trees.

"Can't... late..." she murmurs, desperately trying to call back the pearly avenue. "Promised..."

"Hush," the voice bids her. "You're fine. Everything's fine. Open your eyes, now. Come home to me, Alice..."

_Home! Tarrant!_

She moans and pushes through the darkness. She expects to encounter the hard, linen-like texture of the tree bark, but finds actual linen beneath her hands. Linen and something firm but not so very unyielding as a tree. Something much warmer and _alive _than even the warmest of sun-kissed patches of bark.

_Is this...? Am I...?_

She can barely form the thoughts, so afraid of being broken – shattered, destroyed – over them when they turn out to be false, a dream, a delusion...

"Alice...?"

The voice sounds concerned now, dejected, lost. She doesn't like that sound so much. It calls to her, makes her ache. She turns toward it, inhales, and promptly sobs.

_Tarrant! _

The scent of him surrounds her and she burrows into it, seeking him, for surely he must be nearby!

Her arm winds around a man's waist. Her face brushes then presses against the fabric of his shirt. Oh, if this is only a dream it will _kill her to wake up!_

But it must be, for Alice can remember only the darkness and horror and fear and what-have-I-become? of Causwick Castle. She recalls a vague sense of traveling, of the wind on her face, and the impression of square stones on her memory, but it's so dim, so fleeting...

_This can't be real..._

"It is. I am. You are. Alice..."

The same rough hand gently brushes against her cheek. The second sob that escapes her is muffled against his chest.

The voice deepens, softens, rumbles, "Open yer eyes an'see what ye smell, lass..."

Alice freezes.

_Lass._

Suddenly, she _knows _she is not dreaming. She is...

_Lass!_

... inside the cruelest of nightmares...

_Lassling!_

... and she...

... she...

"_Don't touch me you __**filthy OUTLANDER!**_" She shoves him away with all her strength, propelling herself backward, tumbling over the edge of something. She strikes the floor and, heart racing, panic cresting like an ocean wave over a tiny vessel, Alice rolls to her feet and grabs the first thing she can find – a water pitcher, which she smashes against the table. It shatters and splashes water over her legs and feet but the handle she still holds is now connected to a large, jagged piece. She turns toward her assailant – _how many times has she told them she's NOT A PLAYTHING?_ – and evaluates his weaknesses.

His neck, his belly, his...

Something about the man makes her pause. He's still lying on the bed (_What was I doing in his BED?_) vulnerable, open... Too vulnerable, too open.

Alice is confused. Where is the laughter? The grating cackle of degrading humor? Where are the patently false reassurances?

_"Aw, we werenae goin'teh 'urt ye, Lassling. 'Twas jus'a'bit o'fun..."_

"I'll show you something _I _think is fun..." she hisses through her teeth.

_"You sure there be a woman under that snarl?"_

Alice growls, "If you're keen to check and you don't mind a bit of pain, be my guest!"

But no braying laughter echoes in the room. No sudden movements. Alice listens to her own breathing, hating the harsh pants. And her heart... it feels as if the force of its beating ought to shake her apart, knock her off of her feet. She grips the shard of china in her hand and wills herself to _focus!_

_This is not the time for WEAKNESS!_

Bit by bit, Alice feels her breaths quiet, her heartbeat calm. Unfortunately, she also begins to feel unbelievably, incredibly _weak._

_NO! Stay standing, you twit!_

"Alice...?"

She shivers, shakes her head, blinks at the broken pitcher in her grasp, the sharp, white fragments scattered on the wet floor.

"Alice...?" Again, that hesitant voice – that torturous lisp – comes _again!_

"What?" she demands, desperately trying to stay strong, in control! She will not succumb to their trap!

There's a moment of hesitation and it's that beat of uncertain silence that rocks her to the core, upsetting her fragile balance. For _they _have never hesitated. _They _do not know _how _to hesitate. It's not in _their _nature...

"Why is a raven like a writing desk?"

The shard shakes in her hand but she can't still it. Her whole being feels like it's about to crash apart in jagged, razor-sharp pieces.

"... _**no**_..." she moans. How had they discovered this? How had they learned of it? And why do they use it against her _now?_ She is _one of them! She is strong! SHE HAS BEEN SUCCESSFUL IN DECIEVING THEM!_

"No, no, no... Stop. Just... just..."

There's a clatter and the feeling of falling. She thinks she hears a sharp oath and the rustle of cloth and then the floor – wet and jagged in odd places – crashes into her. Her eyes close and she welcomes the darkness before the pain manages to catch up to her.

* * *

He expects death, for that is the manner in which his crimes must be atoned in Shuchland and King Aven has never been one to show mercy. Not for treason. Not for betrayal. Not for an Aven who has turned away from the royal family.

Leif closes his eyes.

The king's anger permeates the nearly empty hall. Only the Aven family's unfailing pride prevents this trial from being made public. No Aven is _ever_ subjected to public humiliation and ridicule. Leif can't help but feel relieved at this. Perhaps Alice will never hear of his death, will never know what he'd done, will never guess the reason behind it...

_Alice._ He wishes he could have seen her one more time. He wishes _she_ could have _seen _him one last time so that she might see all that he feels for her, all that had been concealed beneath his shock and disappointment and loss when he'd watched her walk away from him, from Avenfaire, from Shuchland.

If he had known it would end like this, he would have gone after her. He would have confessed his feelings and damned the consequences.

Now... now he will never know if his love might have been enough to bring her to him.

Leif keeps his gaze lowered. He knows he ought to look up and daringly meet the king's eyes. Death would be instantaneous for that insult. But he allows them to expound on his faults, on his transgressions, on the methods of punishment he has earned. It's a small comfort that the duel had been a draw, that the rule of Shuchland remains within the capable paws of King Avenglen. There is only one comfort Leif _can _take from all of this: _Alice is free of Jaspien._

But is she alive? Or had the Hafflaffen killed her before she could be cured?

But is she safe? Or is that madman even now loosing his temper upon her?

Leif knows he will die with these questions unanswered.

_You did this to yourself._

Yes. Yes, he had.

_And now you'll pay for it._

Yes. He undoubtedly will.

He tries not to listen too closely as Champion Avenresh – Leif's own uncle – insists on being given the privilege of hacking off his nephew's mane, carving out his tongue, taking off his hands and feet... All that before allowing Leif to die a coward's death – a slit throat...

The very idea... Leif grits his teeth to control the convulsion of disgust and horror. But he had known the consequences of his choice... and he'd made it anyway. Not for the first, second, or even hundredth time, he wishes he could be disgusted at himself. Swayed by a woman. A _blood-bonded_ woman, no less!

He tries to shame himself with his actions, but how can he feel shame when he thinks of her? How can he feel shame when there might exist the smallest chance that she still lives? That she will be strong enough to leave that mad bastard and find happiness?

Two fortnights ago, Leif would have spat in the face of any fortune teller who may have predicted the situation he now finds himself in.

_It's just as well I make it a habit to stay clear of those useless mystics._

But still, knowing the future would not have prevented this. He might have insisted on accompanying Alice back to Mamoreal. And if he had, he would have fought to the death to keep her from being taken. Or, he might have locked her away in the castle to keep her away from that hatter. If he had... well, all the roads Leif considers still lead him here, to this moment, to the forfeiture of his life.

Avenresh steps down, having aired his grievance and expounded on the offender's earned punishments. Leif knows what comes next. The crimes have been counted. The injured party has spoken out. Now, the king will announce the verdict.

Leif grits his teeth and forces himself not to tense up, not to resist.

_You've earned this. You've shamed them. Shamed yourself._

Even if it doesn't feel that way, he knows it must be true.

As the king moves to stand, there's a sudden movement. Out of the corner of his eye, Leif thinks he sees his liege stand and take the floor. A blaze of panic bursts from his heart.

_No, no, you idiot! Sit back down!_

"My King, I request permission to speak before sentencing," Prince Avendale says in a clear, sure voice.

Leif holds his breath. _Shut up, Dale. Don't you __**dare...!**_

The king nods and relaxes back onto his throne.

"I petition that the crimes filled against Leif –"

On his knees on the cold, sandstone floor, Leif flinches. No longer is he a Champion. No longer is he an Aven. He is not even an Oben once more. He is nameless, without a family, lacking even a homeland.

_You knew this would happen when they caught you!_

Yes, he had. But he couldn't have run away after that duel. Not with those mercenaries getting to their feet and looking hungrily across the battlefield at Leif's people. He'd almost hoped for their charge. He'd almost hoped to kill a dozen of them before being cut down himself. But no, it hadn't happened that way.

_You don't deserve such an honorable death._

He knows.

" – the crimes Leif has been charged with must be reconsidered," Avendale continues, "as he was acting in accordance with the wishes of his liege."

Leif cannot stop his paws from curling into fists on his thighs.

_You stupid cub! Say no more! Lie no more for me!_

The silence is so heavy with accusation and shock and disappointment, Leif wonders if he might be crushed beneath it before Resh can indulge in his chosen method of torture and execution.

"_Prince_ Avendale," the king finally rumbles in a dangerous tenor, "are you telling this court that _you _ordered your Champion to interfere with a Champions' Duel? Are you telling this court that _you _engineered this betrayal that may have cost your people their sovereign power?"

_DENY IT, DALE!_

"Yes, I am."

Leif bites back his roar of frustration and guilt and pain and despair. He knows if he makes a single noise he'll be put to immediate death and _now _this stupid, headstrong _boy-lion_ who has yet to grow in a full mane will need him alive for as long as possible, for if there is even the slightest chance of escape, Leif _must _ensure it for his liege. His vows will not permit him to acquiesce to death for as long as the prince needs him.

_Dale, you selfish, idiotic...!_ Words fail him.

"It displeases me greatly to hear this," the king replies.

"I could not allow the Champion of my betrothed to be killed by my family," he says. That and no more in his own defense.

Leif nearly roars at him: _Now I will die defending you from your family and __**you**_ _will earn __**my punishment!**_

It's too horrific to contemplate. The waste of life, of happiness, of a future, makes him feel physically ill.

"I will acquiesce to any and all punishments this court deems acceptable," the prince says in a soft but firm tone.

For a moment, no one says anything at all. And then the queen speaks:

"You do not regret your actions in the slightest?"

From the resonance of her voice, Leif knows she's struggling with tears, for she knows as well as Leif what fate will befall her youngest son now, what fate _must _befall him.

The prince replies, "I regret that I did not accompany the White Queen and her guard to Mamoreal. If I, my Champion, and my guard had done so, this tragedy may have been prevented – the White Queen may not have been captured and her Champion may not have been forced to serve their captors. But there is nothing I can do to make that right. That it happened, however, _is _my responsibility. I was remiss, overly confident, and thoughtless in my duties toward my betrothed. Perhaps my actions – the return of her Champion – have given some comfort to her despite the fact that she will never be fully compensated for her suffering." The prince takes a deep breath. "I offer myself to the court and await your verdict."

And when it comes long moments later, it is not the verdict Leif had expected.

In many ways, it is worse.

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[End of Chapter 8: Scenes 2 & 3 of 4]


	58. Book 2, Poisons, 3 of 3

**Warning: This entry contains references to sexual situations. [NON-explicit]**

**If you are of age, you can read the NC-17 version of this scene on my homepage. See my bio for the link. (^_~)**

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Chapter Eight: Poisons

[Scene 4 of 4]

The next time Alice's eyelashes flutter, Tarrant is very deliberately sitting in the armchair beside the bed. He resists the urge to lean closer to her, to touch her, to speak to her. The queen had given him _very clear_ instructions regarding this after she'd come to check on Alice and had found Tarrant in the midst of cleaning up the shattered crockery on the wet floor.

He'd considered lying, rhyming – "_Och, 'twas me. Clumsy..."_ – but the queen had seen the falsehood forming in his eyes.

"The truth, Hatter," she'd demanded.

He sighs at the memory. It's impossible to defy a royal decree from one's own sovereign. Unfortunately.

"Do _not _let her wake up next to you," the queen had declared, her eyes swimming with sudden tears. "Alice has been doing her best to protect herself from men and beasts every minute of the day for nearly a week. Many of whom were Outlanders and spoke as such. Watch your voice with her, Tarrant. If you don't think you can do that..."

"No, no, I _will._"

Resisting the urge to lean forward in the armchair to greet his Alice when she opens her eyes, Tarrant's mouth tightens, his eyes narrow, he nods once.

_I will!_

He only hopes this will work. He only hopes she will _see _him this time, _understand _where she is. He doesn't know what he'll do if he has to watch that frighteningly desperate, chilling madness take her again...

Tarrant fists his left hand and curses his utterly _slurvish_ weakness, the weakness that had lead him to initiate the Thrice a-Vow with Alice.

_My Alice, I never wanted you to know madness..._

But she has known it. Her panic and aggression upon wakening, her complete inability to absorb reality, the flickering of amber-colored rage in her ought-to-be-brown eyes is all a testament to what Tarrant has done to her.

Unforgivable mistakes:

The heart line that has opened her mind to sharing his predisposition to madness...

The promise that had nearly driven her to fight until she died of exhaustion...

Tarrant briefly closes his eyes at the thought of that vow. In the dim hours surrounding dawn, he'd carefully considered the implications of that promise. After Alice had made it, she'd become the Queen's Champion, had killed Ilosovich Stayne, had been forced to twist and mutilate herself into the sort of creature who could survive amongst a band of hardened, blood-thirsty mercenaries.

If _this _is what comes from a single, kept promise, Tarrant vows to never let her make another to him!

A small gasp startles him and he sits upright, his eyes opening, hope blossoming within him.

"Alice?" he whispers, dreading the reappearance of the madness, frightened for her.

She stares at him, disbelieving. "Am I... Are you real?"

Grinning, he reaches out to her and offers his hand. With the briefest hesitation, she takes it. He swallows thickly at her touch and forces his native Outlandish accent away. It pains him that Alice is in no condition to hear it now. It pains him to know that something that had given her such pleasure before now causes her unbearable pain.

"Feel that?" he asks.

"No bandages," she notes. "Or thimbles. Strange..."

"Well, I couldn't very well take them with me on a rescue mission or there's no telling what sorts of hats they might have gotten up to."

She chuckles in that soft, breathless way of hers. Tarrant studies her brown eyes, relieved that she's really here with him. Present and accounted for.

_She remembers me this time!_

He watches as she shifts a bit uncomfortably and gives him an apologetic smile. "I'd very much like to hear about that rescue mission... just as soon as I use the lavatory."

"Of course," he replies and moves to help her up. "Slowly now. You've been very busy expelling Hafflaffen."

"Is that why I feel as if a herd of gryphons have danced the Futterwhacken on me?"

Tarrant cackles despite himself. "Silly, Alice. Everyone knows gryphons Futterwhacken in _flocks._"

Alice snorts and swings her legs over the side of the bed. Gently, Tarrant pulls her to her feet. She sways for a moment, then finds her balance and looks up at him.

"Are you sure I'm not dreaming?" she wonders aloud.

"I'm sure," he replies, resisting the urge to fold her into his embrace and keep her safe in his arms for all the days remaining within the Oraculum's roll of parchment. "And before you ask, I'm fairly certain _I'm _not dreaming us, either."

"But how do you know?" she wonders curiously.

"You could pinch me," he suggests.

"No, I couldn't." And then she leans forward and presses her lips to his.

The groan nearly makes its way up his throat and past his vocal chords, but he strangles it in his chest.

_Control, lad. Control!_

Warily, he lifts his hands from her upper arms and wraps his right arm around her waist. His left hand delves deeply into her hair.

_Stay with me, Alice. Don't let me hurt you, remind you again..._

Her arms wind around his shoulders and her hands bury themselves in his hair. Tarrant's blood heats as she presses closer to him, her breasts so soft against his chest and her hips arching toward him so invitingly. His right hand, due to that damned annoying brace, cannot clench in her nightshirt, so he moves his left hand from where it cradles the back of her head. It trails down from her temple, along her cheek, and then his fingertips feather against her jaw. Tilting her head just a bit, he breathes against her neck, nibbles the underside of her chin, presses daring, biting kisses at the juncture where her pale neck becomes an equally invitingly pale shoulder.

"Tarrant..." she murmurs, moving against him. Her hands fist, one in his hair – still too long, but at times like this he can't bring himself to mind! – and the other in his shirt. "So quiet..." she muses.

He winces but she does not see it, cannot see it. "If one of us _is _dreaming," he murmurs against her skin, "I'd hate to wake us up..."

She sighs in agreement. "I'm afraid we'll have to risk it regardless. I now _urgently_ need to visit the lavatory."

"Of course! Forgive me!" He escorts her across the hall to the room she requires then waits until she emerges, managing to catch Algernon's unblinking eye and whisper a request for a meal service. He then helps Alice – looking much more relaxed and refreshed – back into their borrowed room.

"Why aren't we in our apartment?" she asks and he feels his entire being fill with warmth at the small, simple phrase: _our apartment_.

"And why is your hand bandaged? What rescue mission? Why don't I remember leaving Causwick? Did you say something about Hafflaffen? And do we have any Pain Paste for all these bloody bruises?"

Giggling, Tarrant sits her down on his lap in the armchair. "Let's see... it's easier to arrange for frequent hot baths on the first floor; I broke it; probably due to too much Hafflaffen; yes, I did say something about that; and no, not at the moment we don't." He taps her nose. "I think your curiosity is starting to catch up to you!"

"It already has," she says with a breathy laugh. "Now stop being so mysterious and tell me what happened. Everything."

"I _will_, Alice, just as soon as the tea service arrives."

Her sigh is wistful, nostalgic. "Tea..."

He grins. "Aye... um, remember you mentioning something about missing it." Tarrant resists a wince at the small slip and prays to the Fates that Alice hadn't noticed...

Her eyes remain warm and dark and lucid. "Tea wasn't the only thing I missed," she murmurs. When she leans in to kiss him again, Tarrant opens to her readily at the first brush of her tongue. He can't help the small, breathy moan as she possesses his mouth.

"Hmm..." she murmurs, leaning back for an agonizing moment. "Better. Say that again, Hatter."

Her teeth scrape over his lower lip, trap it in her mouth and then she sucks on it just _so._ Tarrant hears himself indulge her request with helpless abandon. She moves in his lap, rubbing against him. He has to clear his throat to keep the Outlandish from pouring out: "Alice? What can I give you? Tea? An epic account of your rescue? Or..." Dare he hope for... "Myself?"

"All aforementioned necessities," she breathes, lowering her mouth to his neck and nuzzling just beneath his ear.

"And..." He gulps. _Control!_ "What would be your order of preference?"

"You. Tea. Epic-ness."

He groans again. "Yes..."

And some time later - some blissfully, breathtakingly, pulse-racingly passionate time later! - when Tarrant manages to tumble back into his own topsy-turvy mind, he notices Alice's hands brushing out his eyebrows, trailing down the length of his nose, rubbing against his lips, lingering under his jaw...

He opens his eyes. "Are you...?"

"Fine," she tells him, smiling _that _smile. The one that's for her lover only. The very _best _reward he could ever receive for pleasing her yet again. "Ravens," she whispers.

Tarrant sighs as the last of his reservations evaporate: Alice is _truly_ going to be all right! _They _are going to be all right! "And writing desks, my Alice." He rubs his lips against hers in a prelude to a kiss.

"No one has the slightest idea why we say that, you know," she mutters, closing her eyes and mimicking his not-quite-a-kiss ministrations.

"Not true," he argues. "_We_ do." He pauses and says against her willing mouth, "A fact that pleases me _greatly._"

She moans her agreement as his tongue gently enters her mouth and savors her.

It's a while before Algernon is finally permitted to enter the guestroom with the tray he'd prepared, much to the fish butler's obvious irritation. Tarrant is surprised the creature doesn't voice his complaint, though, when the Hatter finally opens the door and accepts the covered dishes and tea tray. But, perhaps, it has something to do with the way Alice is lounging across the rumpled bed, wearing naught but Tarrant's too-large bathrobe and a _very _satisfied smile.

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[End of Chapter 8]

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**Author's Note:** As mentioned above, if you are of age and would like to read the version of this chapter which include the complete love scene, please visit my homepage. The link is available on my bio. Thank you.


	59. Book 2, Visiting Madness, 1 of 2

**__****Chapter Nine: Visiting Madness ****[Scene 1 of 2]**

"Oh, _Alice!_"

Alice pulls Mirana into a tight embrace and feels the queen lean her cheek against her head. "You're safe after all," Alice murmurs. "Tarrant told me but I was afraid to believe it without..."

"Seeing it with your own eyes," the queen finishes for her. "I know, dear Alice. I know." With a final squeeze, Mirana pulls back. "Come and sit with me, just the two of us for a bit. Let us put all of that unpleasantness behind us, once and for all. There's much to be done in the coming days..."

Alice nods and follows Mirana to the sofa in the queen's tower parlor. They sit but Mirana doesn't let go of Alice's hand. Alice smiles at the gesture.

"It's nice to be able to really look at you again," she says, shuddering at the memory of manufactured indifference.

"Yes, and it's wonderful to actually like what I see when _do _look at my Champion again!"

Alice fidgets. "Well, I'm not actually... that is, Tarrant explained how Chessur, uhm, _persuaded_ Jaspien to release me from his service. So, doesn't that mean that... I'm no one's Champion?"

"At the moment, perhaps," Mirana replies. "And should you chose not to continue on that path, I will understand. Just know that it is open to you should you wish to resume it."

Alice struggles to swallow around the sudden tension gripping her throat. "Tha... thank you."

Mirana smiles and brushes an errant curl away from Alice's eyes. "No, _thank you_, Alice. Despite my assurances that I could negotiate our way out of that blasted castle, it was _you _who saved us both."

Her heart thumps painfully at the reminder. "I didn't know... I still don't know how I managed to do... those things. I... I could hear myself – the things I was saying – and yet I just couldn't believe that was really me... that _I _was really..."

"You are a woman of _most _uncommon strength," Mirana tells her warmly. "And, working together, we managed to hold on long enough for a way out of that horrible place to be shown to us."

Alice sighs. "I've yet to thank everyone. I've only seen you and Tarrant so far..."

"Which is _fine!_ The others know you're recovering and I'm sure Tarrant is with them as we speak, letting them know how you are."

"Thank you, Your Magesty. For curing me. Tarrant told me about Oshtyer and the Hafflaffen..." Alice sends a wry glance in the queen's direction. "And I _strongly _suspect that Mally, Thackery, Chessur, and Tarrant are – at this very moment – actually reviving the Resistance under the guise of afternoon tea."

Mirana laughs. "I wouldn't doubt it! Tarrant is quite protective of you. I've never seen him so..."

Alice feels a twinge in her chest at the thought of Tarrant worried sick about her. In fact, she might have seen that look on his face when she'd _finally_ woken up yesterday and had found him doing his best to restrain himself to the armchair beside the bed...

"I'm just so glad you're all right," Mirana says, squeezing Alice's fingers.

Alice studies the queen's face. "And how are _you?_ Did Jaspien keep his word to you? Were you... I mean..."

"I was fine. Completely and utterly fine. Although, I must say, if I ever have to watch that man contemplate a boiled egg or hear him slurp his porridge again, I may go against my vows not to harm a living creature."

"That sounds... torturous," Alice replies with a wry but sympathetic grin.

Mirana laughs softly. "Not as much as trying to act like a brainless nitwit of a girl who is easily distracted by shiny things."

Alice chuckles. "But you fooled him."

"And you fooled Valereth into thinking you were cooperating out of ambition, and Oshtyer into thinking you were loving it for the violence. I... I'm sorry, Alice. I never could have done that."

"Despite getting such good marks in Resolving Disputes with Temperamental Despots?"

The queen laughs. "Yes. Despite even that."

"Would you..." Alice glances away, knowing she has no right to ask but feels compelled to nonetheless. "Would you tell me about it? I'd really like to know exactly what it was like. For you."

Smiling, Mirana lays an arm across Alice's shoulders and tells her. She leaves nothing out. Not the battle she'd watched Alice fight in the courtyard, not the grand plan of their captors to divvy up all of Underland between them, and not Oshtyer's vile scheme to lure Alice into his clutches. Mirana leaves nothing hidden and dabs gently at Alice's silent tears with her lace handkerchief.

"There, there. It's over now. They cannot hurt us anymore, for we've grown stronger through that trial even though we were _already_ stronger than all three of them put together!"

Alice merely nods and sniffles.

Mirana fetches her a fresh handkerchief and a cup of cooling tea. For several minutes, they simply sit together on the sofa, luxuriating in an act that is so simple and yet had been impossible a mere two days ago.

"And now you, dear Alice," Mirana coaxes gently. "Will you tell me of your time there? Leaving nothing out?"

Alice looks up, startled. "I..." She frowns. "I..." Her memories swirl like a sea storm through her head. Everything is suddenly _there_, all at once! She flinches away from the darkness and cruel laughter and pain and heart-tearing anguish.

"Alice? Can you tell me?"

She blinks and studies her friend's pale, worried face and for an instant her desire to lay all of this pain and darkness at Mirana's feet is nearly as strong as the sudden panic that warns her not to even consider it.

The queen waits.

Alice struggles to find some way to fulfill her request competently. And without getting sucked into – trapped within! – Causwick Castle again. Even if it is only real in her memories now.

And then there's a soft knock on the door.

"Come in!" Mirana calls with an apologetic smile.

"I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but we've guests from Shuchland awaiting an audience with you in the White Hall."

At the mention of Shuchland, Mirana stands and as her hand is once more wrapped around Alice's, Alice is pulled to her feet as well. "Prince Avendale?" she asks, already rushing toward the door.

Lakerton bows and holds the door open for her.

Alice marvels at how fast Mirana can run in her white heeled slippers and yet still produce only a whisper of sound and the vaguest impression of haste.

_Must make a note to ask her where she learned how to comport herself like that, _Alice thinks as she does her best to keep up. The castle corridors and stairs blur past and it seems only a moment or so later that Pondish and a fellow who Alice thinks is called Marshing open the great doors for the queen and Alice to pass though.

Alice blinks, taking in the pair of figures kneeling before the simple, white throne on its raised dais. For a moment, she doesn't recognize them.

"Dale!" Mirana gasps, releases Alice's hand, and rushes toward him.

Alice gapes. The prince doesn't even turn to look at her. His ear twitches just barely in her direction, but that is all. Alice watches as Mirana sinks to the polished floor in front of him and gathers his paws in her hands.

"What has happened to you?"

Approaching the figure that _must_ be the prince's Champion, Alice has to struggle not to gasp aloud as the queen had. Both of them are barefoot and she can see dirt and blood and scratches and cuts on the pads of their feet. Their clothes are torn and filthy. Fine tremors run through Champion Avenleif's body and his arms shake. She hears the faint, despairing gurgle of an empty stomach and, with a glance at the attending frog footman, softly requests meals, baths, and guest quarters to be readied.

"... banished." Alice hears the prince explain in a lifeless tone. "We are disowned and exiled, Your Majesty. We came here not to seek your protection or mercy, but to assure ourselves that you and your Champion are safe and well before we continue on our way..."

Alice stares, finally noticing the most horrid thing of all – the prince's mane, his lustrous golden mane, has been completely and brutally hacked off. Mirana is busy inspecting the dark cuts made by a hastily-wielded razor – or dagger – along his neck.

"You will stay with me, _here_," Mirana tells him. "And I will treat these wounds and you will re-grow your mane, and when you are able and willing, you may tell me the reason for such an ill fate to have befallen you."

The prince lowers his head again as Mirana gently strokes his cheeks and ears. Alice sinks down to her knees beside her newest friend and fellow fighter and, remembering the very unfriendly look he had given her as she'd left Avenfaire, she gently lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Do you need to see a physician?" she asks softly.

He shakes his head.

Alice can think of nothing else to say.

When the frog footman returns, she stands and, with a hand under his great, beefy arm, urges him up. "Your rooms are ready as well as baths and something to eat. Your Majesty?" Alice's tone manages to rouse the queen, who makes an effort to pull the other lion to his feet. She manages it only because the prince does not deny her wordless request.

"Come on," Alice says, maneuvering Avenleif out of the hall and down the corridors in the frog's wake. They don't go far, thankfully. The apartment on the first floor, tucked away in a newer wing of the castle, had obviously been meant for visiting dignitaries.

"No," Dale says, refusing to enter the fine room. "We cannot stay here. I'm no longer..."

"It doesn't matter," Mirana tells him. "I'm afraid one room is much like any other in this castle. You'll have to suffer with the luxury."

Alice moves to enter the room behind them, but at her side, the lion refuses to budge. Frowning, she looks up, "Champion Avenlief, I'll thank you to cooperate with us."

"Champion Alice," he rumbles, his eyes so sad, so devoid of light and humor and life. "My liege is no longer a prince, so I can no longer be addressed as a Champion. We are no longer even Avens... I am called Leif now." He closes his eyes and shudders. "And I am thankful to have that much."

"I don't understand," she admits. "How did this happen?"

"You don't remember the battle?"

Alice shakes her head. "No, I was told I fought with the Champion from Shuchland, but I can't..." Frustrated, she shakes her head. "I have no memory of it."

He lets out a long breath and lays a scratched and grimy paw over her hand which still rests on his arm. "Avenresh – the King's Champion – wanted to end the duel as quickly as possible to secure victory for Shuchland. He refused to... I couldn't let him..." His sigh sounds like a soft growl. "Your people needed time to free you from Jaspien's control before they could take you home." Alice nods. Tarrant had explained that part of the plan. Leif concludes, "I... I took Avenresh's place."

Alice stares at him. "You... I fought _you?_"

"Yes." And then one side of his mouth tilts upward and a tiny light enters his golden eyes. "You were pretty good with a broadsword, actually."

"Don't look so surprised," she replies in a droll tone.

"Far be it from me to wound the pride of a true Champion," he says by way of apology, his gaze moving over her with unnerving intensity.

Alice shivers and searches for the way back to their original conversation. "So you took the place of the King's Champion... but then why...?"

"Without permission, Champion Alice. I acted on my own. I risked the future of the family of Aven, of Shuchland. The penalty for that..." He sighs and glances at the open door. "Dale, the idiot, convinced his father I'd done so on his orders. And for that..."

"They cut off his mane?" Alice wonders aloud, horrified.

"Disowned us, exiled us." He looks down and turns his paw, collecting Alice's hand in his much larger one. "We came only to see if you and the queen were safe and well. We have nothing to offer in repayment of any kindness Her Majesty shows us. We cannot stay."

Alice narrows her eyes. "You _will _stay. Dale needs you and Mirana needs him. It's the least you can do."

"And you, Champion Alice?" Leif asks softly. "Is there no service your require? Nothing you will accept in payment for your hospitality?"

Alice grasps his thick fingers – only two fit in her grasp, but she doesn't loosen her grip – and informs him, "It's Alice, _just _Alice now. And you've yet to finish teaching me how to use a scimitar. I'll be expecting those lessons to continue."

A small puff of laughter escapes him. "You might have noticed I didn't bring one with me."

"I have the one you gave me. And a few others I picked up in the market."

"Is there anything I can say to change your mind?"

Alice grins. "I'm not sure. But keep trying. I'll warn you... it could take a while."

"Days?" he asks.

Alice simply gives him a mysterious smile and playful shove. "Get in there and eat before the complaints from your stomach get so loud I can't even hear myself think."

He barks out a laugh. "Yes, _just_ Alice."

"Oh, keep it to a dull roar, would you?"

He tilts his head in acquiescence and Alice notices faint humor and familiar animation in his features again. It warms her heart to see him looking more like himself. As he turns to enter the room, Alice puts her hand on his arm.

"And Leif... _thank you._"

Leif turns and looks at her over his shoulder. His eyes flicker briefly in the direction of her left hand and the heart line. "For you, Alice, I could not have done otherwise. No thanks are needed. Or deserved."

"Let me be the judge of that. Now eat your tofu and mushrooms."

Leif makes a face. "Yum..."

Alice laughs and pushes him through the door. She moves to follow but a flash of movement stops her. Turning, tense and alert, she scans the pearly corridor. She studies each doorway, but there's no one and nothing there. She frowns. Perhaps she'd merely experienced a sliver of a memory, something from her time at Causwick... Or a hopeful phantom...? Perhaps it had been...? No, she decides. No, certainly she hadn't seen a familiar dark suit and top hat just now.

_It's just my imagination... reminding me of how much I miss him already..._

Alice considers leaving their guests to their own devices, but knows she can't. Even though she's not the Queen's Champion at the moment, Alice is still Mirana's friend. And her friend needs her here.

With a sigh, she steps into the apartment and helps Mirana organize the preparation of the baths and medicines their guests will need while the lions eat. Still, she can't shake the sudden, odd, empty echo in the center of her chest. As if her heart had stopped beating and now only dreams of a memory of having once done so.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 9: Scene 1]


	60. Book 2, Visiting Madness, 2 of 2

**__****Chapter Nine: Visiting Madness ****[Scene 2 of 2]**

"Hatter? Where's Alice?" Mally asks, tossing a sugar cube at Thackery. Turning, she plants her tiny fisted paws on her hips and reminds him, "You said you were bringing her down for tea."

"You know very well Tarrant cannot just _drag _Alice away from a private meeting with the queen," Chessur replies, rolling his eyes.

"Humph. They've been up there for an hour! What do they need to talk about anyway?"

Tarrant sinks down into his chair and studies the gilded edge of his teacup.

"Ar, th'queen needs a Champion nauw, don'she?" Thackery replies, twirling his half-full cup around in its saucer with his pinky.

"But Alice _is_ her Champion!"

Chessur, hovering, rolls onto his back and contradicts her: "Not since Her Majesty released her from her vows. Remember? That's how she was able to swear allegiance to Jaspien."

"Th'_cad!_" Thackery reminds them all with a thump on the table.

"So... Alice is retaking her Champion vows?" Mally asks curiously.

"I would imagine so," Chessur answers her, but Tarrant can feel the cat's attention on him. "Tarrant, would you know anything about Alice's intentions to resume her position as the Queen's Champion?"

Mute, Tarrant shakes his head and tries not to compare the cup's delicate gold marquee with the pattern of Alice's heart line.

A beat of silence rolls down the table and over the tea service and party participants. "Tarrant..." Chessur says in a warning tone. "I know that look. This is a _tea _party. Either leave the self-pity at the door or share it out with your friends and be done with it."

He sighs and glances around at the expectant faces of his closest – _Chessur, too? Odd..._ – friends and informs them in a low mumble, "Avendale and his Champion are here."

"Here? _Nauw?_" Thackery hiccups.

Tarrant nods.

"Well, you've got to admit, the Champion was rather... useful in helping us get Alice back," Chessur dares to suggest.

Tarrant aims a glare at him. "I want him away from _my Alice!_" he spits out between his teeth, closing his eyes and trying not to remember the rumbling chuckle, the tender tone, the softly spoken confession: "_For you, Alice, I could not have done otherwise..."_

"Hatter!"

Looking up, Tarrant blinks and then, looking down, notices that both of his hands are curled over his teacup as if he plans to snap it in half right down the middle. He gently returns it to the saucer and clears his throat. However, he does _not _tell them he's fine. He is _**not **__fine!_

"Alice likes him," he forces himself to explain even though he can't bring himself to stop glowering at the empty cup.

Again Silence pulls up a chair and keeps them company.

Surprisingly, it's Thackery who evicts the unwanted guest: "Bu'_ye're_ th'one she gav'er heart teh!"

"Ex_actly!_" Mally agrees enthusiastically. "You're being jealous, Hatter. You're the _world _to Alice. Why do you think I let her have you?"

Tarrant frowns at her and she covers her mouth with her paws, giggling.

"Jealousy doesn't suit you," Chessur tells him, eyeing his jacket which now sports olive green threadwork. "Not that it looks good on anyone. Dreadful color... What if Alice were to walk in and see you like this?"

He twitches and helplessly looks at the door – still closed! – and sighs.

"A _weddin'!_" Thackery declares. "Marry th'lass, Hatter! That'll settle it!"

"An excellent suggestion," Chessur approves. Then, aside, mumbles, "For once."

Mally gapes. "You haven't asked Alice to _marry you __**yet?**_"

Tarrant winces. "The Thrice a-Vow..."

"Is no substitute for a wedding!" Mally insists. "No wonder you're all turned inside-down and upside-out over this!"

"What you need is commitment," Chessur declares. "Propose to Alice. That will settle your mind on this issue once and for all."

"Och, a _weddin'!_" Thackery croons, misty-eyed, to a sugar cube lying on the table.

Tarrant considers his friends' suggestion. Could it be that simple?

Perhaps... He'd be able to keep Alice, and – more importantly – he'd be _sure _she would stay with him! Not only that, but that wretched lion would realize that Alice is _his once and for all!_ And Tarrant knows that once Alice has promised herself to him for all time, she'll keep that...

_Promise!_

Ah, yes. A wedding vow _is _a promise, isn't it?

The warm rush of hope suddenly turns gray and lifeless in his chest. "No, no I can't ask Alice to make me another promise."

"There's no limit to the number of promises one can accept in Underland," Chessur reminds him, helping himself to more tea.

"It's not good for Alice to keep making promises to me. The last one..."

"Saved her life!" Mally declares.

"Nearly _took _her life!"

Chessur sighs. "Ah, now we come to it."

"Guilt!" Thackery agrees. "Very _bad _f'r digestion!"

Tarrant sighs. "I cannae ask Alice to marry me."

"So, **don't** ask _her _to marry _you!_" Mally nearly shouts in a moment of inspiration. "Ask if _you _may marry _her!_"

Thackery twitches. "Och... Nauw tha's... _lovely!_" He lifts the corner of the tablecloth and dabs his dewy eyes and blows his nose.

"Yes!" Chessur agrees. "It's not a promise if she _chooses _you, Tarrant!"

Tarrant blinks, stares, opens his mouth, but nothing emerges.

"Will you invite us to the Choosing?" Mally pleads.

"Will there be tea?" Thackery presses.

"Can I wear your hat?" Chessur begs.

And then the door to the kitchen opens and Alice walks in, smiling. "You've already _worn_ this wonderful, _lovely _hat, Cat," she says wandering over to Tarrant and running her fingertips along the brim in a very suggestive manner.

Tarrant shivers despite the audience.

Voice husky, Alice tells them, "It's _my _turn next."

Alice takes the seat next to his and Tarrant slides a glance in her direction, feeling his face heat at the very thought of Alice wearing his hat...

He clears his throat, minds his accent, and reaches for her hand under the table. "I _might _permit you to borrow it... on one or two conditions..."

Alice smiles and raises her brows. "And what might those be?"

"Those... will be discussed... _later._" His look is significant.

Alice's smile is... appreciative.

"Tea, Alice?" Chessur interrupts.

"Thank you," she replies as she accepts a cup. "And, _thank you_, all of you, for everything. Most especially, for rescuing the queen and myself."

"Our pleasure!" Mally insists. "Who knew tying up smelly, hairy toes would be so much fun?"

"_Toes on strings!_" Thackery chortles. He and the dormouse clink their teacups together in a toast.

"Despite the saddle sores, corset, and stockings, I also found it to be a very rewarding experience," Chessur insists.

Alice sniggers into her tea. Tarrant merely sits and regards her with wonder. For, amazingly, Alice is finally _here _sitting next to him at tea with their friends, laughing as if the whole nightmare – both Alice's time at Causwick and Tarrant's chronic vision of her death – had never happened at all! Why, she's just exactly like herself! _His Alice!_ Tarrant's very much _muchier_ Alice!

Perhaps he could... he _could _ask her if she'd permit him to wed her...

He's so overcome with the possibility – and the sudden hope that it might be made into reality – that he draws a breath to blurt out his request, right here at tea, surrounded by their friends: _Alice, will you choose me to be your husband?_

"A prince and a Champion in the castle! We need more _tea!_" Thackery declares with characteristic abruptness.

And with that, the moment dies. Tarrant deflates a bit and glares at the March Hare across the table.

At Tarrant's side, Alice nods. His heart aches as her carefree smile dims, fades, and then disappears completely. "Yes, they just arrived."

"Are they... staying long?" Mally ventures.

"I would imagine so. They've no place to go and before we were... er, before we left Shuchland, the queen had every intention of marrying Prin... um, Dale. They're betrothed you know. In the Shuchish custom."

Mally lets out a dreamy sigh and reclines against the inner curve of an unused teacup.

"Romance... all around us!" Thackery warns them, his gaze fixed on Tarrant.

"What do you mean, they have no place to go?" Chessur prompts.

Alice sets her cup down and turns just slightly in Tarrant's direction until her knee is gently pressing just against his. "Well, you all know I fought Aven... er, Dale's Champion at the battlefield, right? Well... it wasn't supposed to be him. He... took the place of the King's Champion without permission... to, uhm, help with your plan." She closes her eyes and elaborates, "To rescue me. And..."

Tarrant watches as she struggles for a light tone of voice but eventually seems to settle on a factual one. "The prince told his father he'd ordered Leif to do it and so both of them are banished from Shuchland. I'm not sure if we should even call them by their titles or family names anymore. They've lost everything..."

In spite of himself, Tarrant can't help but feel his aggression towards that beast soften at her words. Or perhaps it is simply Alice's own heartache, reaching him through the heart line. He doesn't try to untangle the feelings themselves, he simply wraps an arm around her shoulders and pulls her a bit closer to him on the bench.

Mally sniffles, "They've no home now? No names?"

"Only Dale and Leif, if I understand the situation correctly."

"And the queen!" Thackery insists.

Alice smiles weakly. "Yes, that's true. They have her as an ally now. The queen is very fond of Dale. I hope... Oh, _oh!_" Suddenly, Alice pulls away from Tarrant and, grabbing his jacket, gently shakes him. "What if the queen can't marry him now that he's not a _prince?_"

"Not an issue," Chessur replies while Tarrant once again struggles with his natural Outlandish. "The queen can marry whomever she pleases. It's only those of high birth who can petition for her hand. Which, of course, Prin... er, Dale has already done."

Alice relaxes again and Tarrant welcomes her weight against his side. "Still, what they did for me... What _Leif _did for me... I mean, he must have _known _he would be..." She closes her eyes and Tarrant watches her lips press together and her brows draw downward in pained sorrow. "I'll never be able to repay him for that. No matter what I do..."

The thought of Alice _repaying _that lion sparks the darkest corner of Tarrant's mind to life. _Imagining _all the ways that _creature _might _like _for Tarrant's Alice to _repay _him for his noble sacrifice has him opening his mouth and speaking before he even knows what he intends to say:

"'Tis nae _yer_ debt teh be repaid, Alice. 'Tis _mine_ an'we'll sort it out jus'as—"

Tarrant breaks off abruptly as Alice, pressed against his side, stiffens.

_Oh, no! __**NO! What have ye done, lad?**_

In his chest, the warmth he'd felt coming from Alice abruptly ceases. He feels nothing from the heart line at all.

"Alice? Alice?" Tarrant lisps firmly, urgently. He gently cradles her face in his hands and turns her toward him. "I'm sorry, Alice. I wasn't thinking..." He searches her blank gaze for a spark of recognition. "Look at me, Alice. _Please..._"

Alice draws in a slow, controlled breath.

He dares to hope that maybe... perhaps...

"Get your hands off of me, Outlander," she commands, her voice cold and each word dipped in venom before being spat out at him.

Slowly, he removes them. "I beg your pardon," he whispers, never meaning those words so literally in his life.

"Now find yourself a seat that's not next to mine."

She doesn't shout at him this time, which is good. And she doesn't shake with exhaustion, which is also good. But Tarrant can't help but feel that despite those things, the situation remains very **bad**, indeed.

He hesitates a little too long and, in the next instant, feels the edge of a cheese knife – why must Thackery always set the table for teatime _and_ dinner? – pressed against his throat.

"_Move_," Alice orders.

He obeys. Careful not to approach her in anyway – either by shifting his weight or placing his hands between them – he slides backward along the bench until a space two arm-lengths across separates them. Alice, meanwhile, watches him, her entire being radiating with disgust and disdain. When she judges the distance between them to be satisfactory, she smiles – and oh, what a mockery of a smile it is! – and says, "Good boy. I suppose you can be taught after all."

Tarrant resists fisting his hands in frustration, resists letting his disappointment, desolation, distress, and despair add tension to his body. He struggles to make himself look weak and benign to her.

"Alice! What are you _doing?_" Mally shrieks at her, the first to find her voice. Chessur and Thackery are still staring, mouths agape.

Alice blinks and focuses on the dormouse. "Hm? Oh, I'm sorry. What were we...?"

And it's at this moment that Alice seems to notice several things at once: Mally's disbelief-and-soon-to-be-righteous-rage, Chessur's wide eyes, Thackery's utter stillness, the distance between herself and Tarrant, and the cheese knife in her hand, which she abruptly releases onto the table with a clatter.

"What...?" Alice seems to shrink in on herself. "Have I done something?"

Her voice catches on the last syllable and Tarrant pulls himself closer to her and reaches for her.

"_No!_ What are you doing?" Mally hisses, alarmed. She draws her sword.

Tarrant ignores her. "Nothing's wrong, Alice. You're fine. I'm fine. We're fine," he soothes her, speaks into her hair.

"I... don't think I am," Alice murmurs, unsettled. "Why...?"

But she never finishes the question.

Tarrant closes his eyes and resists the sudden, hot rush of tears, for he knows what question she had been about to ask but does not want to know the answer to. He doesn't blame her. The answer frightens him, too.

Before Mally or Chessur or Thackery can volunteer any information, Tarrant briefly opens his eyes and glares them into silence. Mally glares back and opens her mouth to protest but he gestures furiously out of Alice's sight until she turns away with a huff.

"Hush, Alice, hush," he begs her. _Please, don't make me tell you the truth!_

Tarrant has never shied away from the truth as he does now. For how can he explain her episodes of madness _without_ explaining how the combination of his heart line – the open door to madness – on her skin and the promise he'd evoked from her heart – to persevere by any means necessary – so long ago have made it possible?

_Ye did this to her._

Yes, yes, he had.

_'Tis unforgivable!_

He knows. So he doesn't tell her. For if she does not know, then she will not hate him for it, will not leave him because of it.

_Choose me, Alice, please!_ He'd beg if only he still deserved the right to do so. But Tarrant very much fears he's lost that.

No, the truth is too horrible, too terrible, too _much!_ And, once again, he pleads for Time to come to his aid. He hoards this moment with Alice, while she knows him, remembers him, sees him, holds him, _trusts him! _And he struggles not to think about a future in which none of these things may be possible.

**

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**

[End of Chapter 9]


	61. Book 2, The Price of a Promise, 1 of 2

**__****Chapter Ten: The Price of a Promise ****[Scene 1 of 2]**

Mirana has always been happiest when she's been permitted time – and an excuse! – to dabble in her laboratory.

Across the expansive room, Thackery bangs around at the stove. It's soothing, in a way. It keeps her in the here and now. She'd once considered setting up her alchemy tables, cauldrons and cupboards in the rooms that had been built specifically for them. But no... sharing a room with the kitchens is better. It's more difficult for her to lose herself in the rhythmic simmering, the mesmerizing dance of the flame, the gentle clinking of jars as she proceeds from one step to the next in the ages-old recipes... Yes, it's much more difficult to forget herself here in this corner of the enormous kitchen with Thackery clanking pans and salt shakers together in the background. And it's most especially difficult for her to forget herself when she has someone to keep her company while she works.

The last time she'd brewed for an audience, it had been Alice who had knelt at the other side of the table, her Upelkuchen-overindulged head resting on her rather too-capable arms. Today, however, someone with far more whiskers than Mirana's Champion occupies that seat.

"I don't believe I've ever heard that song before."

The queen pauses and realizes she'd been humming... rather badly off-key. She smiles at the bedraggled-looking lion leaning his elbows against the tabletop. "I'm very much afraid you have." She sighs, a bit embarrassed. "It's the Waltz of the Tumtum Tree," she admits.

He shakes his head. "A classic, to be sure, but – in your voice – as unique as you are, Mirana."

She arches a brow at him and reaches for, selects, then adds a buttered finger to the mixture simmering between them. "You've recovered your charm well. Now all you need is the mane to go with it."

He shifts, his smile falling. "I know it bothers you to see me like this. I'm sorry."

Mirana leans over the table and gently cups his whiskery chin. "Do _not_," she says sternly, "be sorry for doing what you know is right. I _know _how important Leif is to you." Indeed, Dale had told her story after story from his cubhood during her visit to Shuhcland; Leif has always been Dale's best friend, protector, brother...

He sighs. "It's true... I can't tell you how many times he's pulled my tail out of trouble..." Dale lifts his paws as if to rub his neck but he freezes midway and returns them to the table without doing so.

Mirana knows he doesn't want to be reminded so totally of his humiliation. She can barely conceive of how he'd managed to bear it in the first place. For a lion without his mane is considered the most pathetic and pitiful of creatures. A non-entity. A ghost of a once-mighty beast. Just imagining it being hacked off of him... when she hadn't even been there to support him... when she hadn't even _known _it was happening...! Not for the first time, she wonders at the purpose of the bond they share if it cannot even alert her to his pain and heartache!

"Mirana... please. Don't." She looks up and blinks furiously at the gathering tears. Dale gives her a droll look. "Isn't it enough I'm letting you salvage my vanity? Don't make me thank you for it, too."

Her laughter pushes the tears away. "Absolutely not. No thanks allowed!"

Giving his whiskered chin one last caress, she returns to her task and reaches for a bowl of freshly ground spite nettles. "I would have done the same for Alice," she says softly, needing him to grasp the depth of her understanding and empathy.

"I don't doubt it, Mi-sh'rya."

Mirana looks up at the alteration of her name.

Dale's grin is endearingly nervous. "Mirana," he corrects himself.

"That's not the first time you've Shuchished my name. Care to tell me what it means?"

She catches the gleam of one of his dagger-like teeth before he smothers his smile. "It means – were your father alive – he'd be within his rights to toss me out on my left ear. I really shouldn't have used it so freely."

"Well, until you tell me what it means, I won't possibly be able to agree with you on that, will I?"

"I suppose not," he replies, finally allowing the wide smile to reveal itself.

Mirana gives him a devious glace. "Or, I suppose I could consult Leif. Do you suppose he'd tell me?"

"Only after boxing my ears," he chuckles ruefully.

"Oh, dear. Now you've _really _got me wondering..."

"Well," he counters, clearing his throat. "Never accuse me of ruining a good mystery."

Mirana laughs. "And why would you bother with mysteries at all? Perhaps I prefer poetry or sonnets...?"

Dale regards her with his golden eyes which sometimes seem so young and sometimes so sagely. "More often than not, we like the very things that we are."

"Are you saying I'm a mystery?" she muses, her eyes now on her work.

"The most intriguing one I've had the pleasure to meet," he confirms.

Mirana tilts her head to the side and contemplates his charming rejoinder. "And what will you do when you've unpuzzled the puzzle?"

He considers his answer. "I suppose I'll have to ask you for a Forgetfulness Draught, so that I can rediscover the answer all over again."

She smiles. "Dangerous things, Forgetfulness Draughts, for you never know what it is you'll forget, and once you've forgotten it..." With a tiny smile, she teases, "And besides, you might very well forget _me_."

"And then you would have to introduce yourself, charm me, and watch me fall in love with you all over again," he rumbles quietly, humor dancing in his eyes.

"I suppose I would, wouldn't I? Can't leave you in such a state of forgetfullish-ness."

"But, please, don't let me inconvenience you, Your Magesty."

"No, _please,_ inconvenience me," she murmurs back, playing along as she adds two fork tines of silken sunshine.

"That's what I appear to be attempting at the moment. How am I doing?"

Mirana sighs dramatically. "Amateurishly, I'm afraid.

He coughs out a laugh. "I suppose I could practice elsewhere until I manage to improve to an acceptable level of proficiency. Could you suggest a volunteer?"

She waves a wooden spoon at him. "All right, _now _you're inconveniencing me."

"Have I graduated, then?"

"Only to Novice."

"Is the lesson over yet?"

"Not at all."

"Then I shall endeavor to reach Sufficient before I concede."

"You may begin at any time, sir."

Grinning, Dale stands and, bracing his paws against the table, leans over the assortment of jars and bottles and pots and containers and Mirana feels his whiskers tickle her cheek and neck.

"You smell of happiness, Mi-sh'rya," he purrs.

With a delightful shiver, Mirana turns her face toward his and...

_BANG!_

She startles, her hand flying to her heart – which suddenly remembers to start beating again and commences for making up for the lost beats with extreme haste! Across the table, Dale had leapt over the bench and now places himself between Mirana and the door.

"_Alice?_"

Mirana sighs, leans around Dale's shoulder and smiles apologetically at a very disorganized-looking Royal Hatter. "I'm afraid not, Tarrant. Has she misplaced herself?"

"Yes, I fear so..." he replies, kneeling down to scan under the tables. "Thackery, have you a shrunken Alice in your pinafore pocket?"

"_No Pishsalver!_" he grunts, whisking something in a bowl with a carrot peeler.

"Try the training field," Dale suggests just as Tarrant dives for the kitchen door, having evidently used up his kitchen's worth allotment of patience.

Tarrant pauses, hand on the door, and turns. "The... training field?" Mirana finds herself receiving an apprehensive yellow-green glance over Dale's shoulder.

"Yes, she and Leif have a appointment with a pair of scimitars, I believe—"

Tarrant barrels out of the kitchen. Mirana is not far behind him.

_Oh, no. Oh, dear. Alice fighting with a lion...! And only three days after being released from Jaspien's service! Only days after being surrounded by men and beasts with weapons...! Only..._

"Mirana?"

"I'm afraid this is rather urgent," she tells Dale over her shoulder. The hallway is already empty when she pushes past the still-swinging door. She picks up her skirts and hurriedly prances her way toward the croquet pitch. Even before she arrives, panting – _really, Mirana! You ought to schedule more exercise into your plans for the day!_ – she can hear Tarrant's shout.

"Orgal!"

_CRASH!_

"Noge!"

Mirana emerges into the sunlit yard and gasps. Leif wields his scimitar with his left hand and his right arm hangs limply at his side. Mirana has to turn her head away from the sight of the bloody gash running from mid-bicep to his wrist.

Tarrant scoops up a scimitar with his left hand and steps forward to draw Alice's attacks.

"No!" Leif hisses. "You won't need that."

Reluctantly, Tarrant tosses the sword aside and stays two paces behind Alice, shadowing her. Mirana expects the woman to turn and run the Hatter through at any moment, but she's completely and utterly – even _mindlessly _– focused on Leif.

In a series of neat moves, Leif manages to tie up Alice's sword and flips it out of her grasp. With her weapon gone, Alice immediately moves into a crouch and her fingers reach for the hidden pocket in her belt.

"_No!_" Mirana gasps just as Tarrant takes two flying steps and manages to tackle Alice to the pitch.

The fight should have stopped there.

But Alice is beyond stopping, beyond reason, beyond Mamoreal. Alice is in Causwick Castle.

"_Alice!_" Mirana shouts, rushing forward despite Dale's frantic whispers. "Stop, Alice, _please._"

A throwing knife clutched in one hand and the other pinned beneath her torso, Alice stiffens.

"Can you hear me, Alice?" Mirana asks, coming closer. She leans down and notes Alice's eyes: brown. There is no glimmer of golden aggression nor is there the flat black of nothingness. Alice opens her fist and Mirana gently retrieves the knife.

Alice says nothing. She closes her eyes and lowers her head to the grass. Still seated gingerly over her back, Tarrant releases her wrist.

"Alice?" he lisps on a whisper of breath.

She sighs. Or perhaps it's a sob. It's difficult to tell as the sound is muffled by the grass.

"Leif, if you'll follow Dale back to the kitchens, Thackery will show you where the bandages and cleansing solution are located." She doesn't take her attention off of Alice. "Alice, dear, please talk to me."

"I'm fine, Your Magesty," Alice mumbles woodenly. "I'm fine."

Mirana frowns. She glances at Tarrant. His pleading stare steals the breath from her. For a moment, she thinks she can nearly feel the depth and intensity of his pain. When she turns back to Alice, she tells her friend gently, "No, Alice, you are _not _fine."

Oddly, Alice doesn't argue... which means she is already starting to suspect that there is something deeply wrong within her own mind.

"Do not overwhelm her, Tarrant," the queen advises him. "And remember to _trust _your Alice. The rest I leave to you." _Be careful_, she thinks before handing him the small throwing knife and heading back to the kitchen. Upon arriving, she notes that Dale has already begun patching up his former Champion, so she returns to her laboratory table and regards the potion she'd so abruptly abandoned. She stares at it, but, for the life of her, she can't seem to decide if it's salvageable or not.

"Leif," she finally says, giving into the thoughts that are distracting her.

"Yes, Your Magesty?"

"Did she do permanent damage to your arm?"

"Not with that pathetic lunge. No, Your Majesty. Of course not."

She sighs in relief. She leans forward to sniff the contents of the small cauldron, but another thought occurs to her.

"Leif..."

"Yes?"

"What happened? Did you speak Outlandish to her?"

There's a short pause and Mirana looks over to see a worried frown on his face. "No. I laughed."

Mirana sinks down onto the bench and puts her head in her hands. She does not cry, but once, she thinks she hears an odd sort of hiccup echo in the room. Luckily, no one remarks on it.

**

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**

[End of Chapter 10: Scene 1]


	62. Book 2, The Price of a Promise, 2 of 2

**__****Chapter Ten: The Price of a Promise ****[Scene 2 of 2]**

_Oh! __**How**_ _could he __**have let this HAPPEN?**_

Alice. Mad.

And now she _knows it!_

Tarrant struggles with his emotions. He must be calm. Rational. Contrary.

Yes, contrary: now is not the time to let lose the anguish emoting his heart. Alice needs him to explain. Tarrant needs for himself to explain, to make sense of this horror, to reassure her, to ask – _beg, plead, implore!_ – her forgiveness. Although he does not expect, deserve, or even hope for it to be given.

Tarrant knows exactly how very _close he is to __**losing his Alice.**_

But, even if she does not leave him today, or in five minutes, or following afternoon tea, how long will he be able to keep her? Soon – too soon! – she will be aware of each and every injury Tarrant has inflicted upon her through his unforgivable _slurvishness!_

_Ye d'nae deserve her..._

He knows.

_Ye cannae keep her..._

He expects not.

_Ye have teh tell her the truth, lad. Tell her what ye've done teh th'lass._

"She'll never forgive me."

Tarrant closes the apartment door – "Oh, no _slamming_ this time? How fortunate I am!" the keyhole snipes. Tarrant barely hears it. – and stares at their home. _Their_ **home**:

_There_ is Alice's chair where she usually sits with her knee pressed against his beneath the table. And _there _is the writing desk where he keeps her letter from Shuchland and the portrait of her that is now too lovely for him to contemplate without feeling the inexcusable need to tear it to shreds. And _there_ is the sofa where she'd first invited him to sit next to her, right before she'd placed her hand over his heart and told him she is _his secret._ And _there_, through the open bedroom door, is the armchair upon which she'd laid her borrowed blue dress and then offered her heart-line finger to him along with a simple – too simple for the gravity of the ritual! – fabric pin.

The memories take him, like the madness, but there's no familiar, numbing heat that accompanies them. He feels each and every moment of those memories with exquisite pain.

And it will only hurt so much more when she leaves him. And she will. For how could she – how could _anyone – _forgive him? Especially when he cannot offer an honest apology for most of it. Fate help him, but if he'd had it all to do again, he would have done nothing differently. For if he had, perhaps he never would have had Alice, however short that time had been, however briefly he'd managed to keep her.

It will kill him if she leaves.

But how can he _not_ let her go?

"What won't I forgive?"

Her voice and the touch on his arm startle him.

"Tarrant?"

He looks down at her hand, focuses on it, tries to etch the image of it into his malleable, ever-shifting mind. And, for once, he's thankful the hand that draws his attention is _not_ the left one.

"Tell me. Please," she whispers. "What happened? Why did I...?"

Tarrant feels his love-pain-_need-loss-__**want-failure!**_ rush together, blending into one torrential cascade of despair, and slice through him. He opens his mouth to reply, feels his eyes burn from the inside out, and then – _remember: CONTROL!_ – he clears his throat.

As evenly as possible, considering the circumstances, he says, "It's my fault your ship broke and those men died. It's my fault you became a Champion and killed Stayne. It's my fault you almost killed Avendale's Champion and then nearly died yourself on the battlefield. It's my fault you're mad, Alice."

For a long moment, Alice just stares at him. "No. No, none of those things are _your fault_."

He moves to reach for her but forces himself to take a step back instead.

_Ye don'deserve teh touch her, lad!_

"They are. Each and every one of them."

Alice's frown is so fierce he shivers. "No, they're not." She follows him when he shakes his head and retreats, then presses her hands against his face. The touch destroys him in ways he cannot even begin to understand. "Stop behaving like this, please. Why would you even think to say those things?"

"Because they're true. I've hurt you far, _far_ too much to be permitted to keep you, Alice."

"No, you haven't. The ship... the Fates..."

"Would not have sunk it if I'd only let the queen bring you back to us sooner."

Alice's jaw clenches. "Contrariwise, it never would have sunk if I'd never set foot on it."

Tarrant looks away, refuses her words.

So she argues the next point: "_I _chose to become a Champion."

"After I'd made you promise to fight and never give up until you win. Don't you _see_, Alice? _Your promise_... a _Champion's _promise... _I _made you that way."

She shakes her head. Her hands still cradle his jaw and cheeks. "Stayne was _not_..."

"He was never going to give up. You promised to fight and win. Only death could have defeated him. _I _made you do that, Alice."

She stares at him for a moment, her expression disbelieving. "Are you next going to tell me that I _honestly _nearly killed Leif in the battle?"

Tarrant nods. "I intervened to stay your hand." His throat moves, but he doesn't actually manage to swallow anything; he still feels... empty. "I'm sorry."

"And how did I nearly die during the duel?"

She's beginning to believe him. He can see the wariness in her eyes. It burns, but he doesn't disrespect her by turning away. This may be the last conversation he has with her, the last private moment they share. Even a miserable Alice is better than... the emptiness.

"You fought so hard. Beyond anything you've ever done. You had no strength left and yet you didn't stop. Could not stop. When I released you from your promise... to fight and win... you fell."

She shakes her head. "No, that was the Hafflaffen, not..."

"The promise. It was the promise, Alice." Torn, Tarrant wishes she would believe him, stop torturing him with the detailing of his failures; but, equally, he wishes she would never understand, for if she does not then she will not go. He confesses, "Just _one_ promise, but it was too... too much to ask of you. Too much to accept. To keep."

Alice still doesn't release him. "_If _you're right, _that _promise kept me going until you could come for me. In Causwick. _That _promise _saved __**me.**_"

Tarrant shakes his head. He can't believe that. _Won't _believe it. She's trying to save him again, but she cannot free him from a prison built by his own will and selfishness.

"And, worst of all, Alice..." He lifts his right hand and collects her left. "With that promise, through this heart line, I've offered you up to the madness..."

She scowls, but Tarrant sees only dread in her eyes, hears it in her voice: "What... madness? I'm not mad!"

Tears gather in his eyes. "I'm so sorry, Alice. You are."

"No... _no!_" she denies frantically. He watches her struggle to ignore the truth of her memories. "What are you talking about? I'm _fine!_ I'm—"

"_Ye're nae able teh hear me speak Outlandish, lass! D'ye nae see what I've taken from ye?_"

And there... there it is. Tarrant watches and sees the _precise _moment when _his Alice _falls away into some secret corner of her own mind and the mercenary takes her over. Like before, she calls him the most horrible, heart-rending names. Like before, she pushes away from him, but this time he holds on to her hands. She fights him.

He lasts only a few seconds before he's unable to bear the sight of what he's done to her. He closes his eyes and lets her wrists slip through his fingers. There's a moment of heat against his cheek before he steps away from her and lowers his arms. He doesn't speak. Unlike _his _madness, the sound of a familiar voice – _his _voice – will not pull Alice back to him. His silence and lack of aggression unsettle her, jar with her memories, make her hesitate. So he waits.

When her panting breaths strangle on a sob, he dares to open his eyes. Alice stands only a few feet away from him, cradling her left hand in her right, her fingertips blue with blood. Tarrant feels a warm trickle slide down his cheek where she'd gouged him with her nails.

If she'd had a knife in her hand at that moment, just after he'd evoked the madness, he's sure she would have slit his throat. As it is, he's lucky she hadn't remembered the garrote still hidden in her belt.

As calmly as he can manage, he holds out a bright orange handkerchief to her. "I'm sorry, Alice."

For an instant, he thinks she's going to run, but no, no of course she doesn't. Not with all that muchness of hers. She takes the handkerchief and suddenly steps toward him, raising her hand.

He can't help the slight flinch and damns himself for it. The confusion in her expression disappears at the helpless movement and is replaced with resignation. Acceptance.

A heartache blossoms hotly in his chest: he's lost her.

Alice presses the handkerchief to his face to stop the blood. She swallows once, twice, but never manages to make a sound. She leads him to the bedroom, sits him on the bed in a move that's reminiscent of their first time together: the third exchange of the Thrice a-Vow. He waits and wonders if, despite all that he's done, all the unfathomable ways he's hurt her, she might kiss him, forgive him, love him still.

But, more likely, it will all end where it had begun. Here. With blood in the air and uncertainty between them.

She washes the cuts on his cheek with soap and water, then reaches for a small jar of the queen's mild injury remedy. He watches as she warms the ointment in her palm before gently applying it to his face. The guilt and sorrow in her expression unravel him. He feels his hands begin to shake, his breaths turn shallow, his muscles tremble.

_Don't leave, Alice...!_

"I broke my promise," she whispers finally, leaning forward to kiss each raw mark on his face.

He closes his eyes and leans into the touch.

_Please, stay. Choose me even though I'll never deserve it..._

"I swore not to hurt you."

He says nothing. It's impossible for him to confess to the same failure when his heart is dissolving in the center of his throat.

"I don't deserve you, Tarrant Hightopp."

When she leans away, he reaches for her – he can't let her walk away from him now! Not like this! Not when she _still doesn't __**understand!**_ – and folds her into his arms. She stumbles and falls with a soft exclamation into his lap.

"Never say that, Alice. Never say that. It's I who... who cannot... I never should have..." He closes his eyes and struggles to assemble his jumbled thoughts. "I should let you go, but I... I..." He growls. He tries to make his arms release her, but they won't.

Alice looks up at him and he feels the rush of hot tears again at the utter desolation and hopelessness in her face. "Tell me what to do. Tell me what you want. Tell me how to make amends for this," she begs, her eyes seeing only the silly, inconsequential scratches on his face.

She looks so... _lost._

"Your... your muchness, Alice," he whispers brokenly, grasping at the first thought that might _reach _her. "You had it a moment ago. Where is it now?"

For some time, she doesn't say anything. Her eyes unfocus and he fears she's falling again into that dark place that holds her prisoner and warps her soul.

He swallows.

The movement of his Adam's apple seems to wake her from her daze. Lying in his arms, surrendering in a way that makes him nauseous, Alice replies slowly, "It was never _my _muchness, Tarrant. It's yours. It's _always _been _yours._ Why else would I cross the bloody moat at Salazem Grum – one floating, decomposing head at a time – to give you back your hat? Why else would I fight the Jabberwocky that destroyed Iplam and drove you into madness? Why else would I become a mercenary and pretend allegiance to the most _foul_ creatures in all of Underland just to stay alive long enough to make it back to you?" She closes her eyes and turns her face away. "It's _your _muchness, Tarrant. I just... borrowed it for a while."

Unable to speak, he shakes his head furiously and holds her tighter.

"You know I can't stay," she whispers.

He watches those damnable silent tears spill over the edge of her lashes. "No, don't go. If you go, you'll take me with you, but I'll be here. Alone! And all the muchness. All gone. _Gone, __**Alice!**_"

She closes her eyes. He watches her throat tense. She says thickly, "I think it already is, Tarrant."

The shock – _is this how it ends?_ – weakens his arms and leaves him too lethargic to move. Alice picks herself up and moves to the wardrobe. He hears drawers sliding open and doors swinging on squeaky hinges. A moment later – or perhaps it's a day, a week, a month! – he feels Alice's hand on his uninjured cheek. He looks up and meets her gaze. She looks oddly blurry from this angle.

_Forgive me_, he desperately wants to say.

_Choose me._

_Raven?_

But the words never make it past the odd blockage in his throat.

"I can't stay," she mouths. "I _can't._"

And then she turns and, gathering a bulging satchel, walks out the door.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 10]


	63. Book 2, Fields of Iplam, 1 of 2

**__****Chapter Eleven: Fields of Iplam**** [Scenes 1& 2 of 3]**

Alice meanders down the glimmering white castle drive, past the susurrus calls carried on the light breeze through the ever-blossoming cherry trees, and considers her heart line, her promise, and the consequences of both.

How could a heart line open one up to madness? She hadn't asked. She should have. It just hadn't seemed like the best time to go into the details. If she'd had to look into Tarrant's utterly pale, hopeless eyes for one more moment, she would have... would have...

Alice shudders.

She turns her mind away from the chill – _but the sun is shining!_ – and considers what she remembers from Mirana's text on Underlandian rites. She supposes it's only logical that if a heart line can help stabilize one partner's madness, it would also have the power to evoke it in the other.

But a promise...? How could a promise meant to keep her alive and safe possibly turn her into a Champion? A murderer? A lying, deceiving, callous, cold-hearted, sadistic mercenary?

_It's only a promise!_

But, in Underland, promises are _real _in ways Alice had never before imagined they could be. And, here – in Underland – Alice has _become _things she'd never thought she could be: a fighter, a lover, a killer.

_A killer._

Of course. How could Tarrant want her? He'd made her into a Champion and she'd used that gift – the power of that promise – and twisted it into something so repulsive, so revolting, that it's no _wonder_ he...

Midway down the drive, she has to stop, close her eyes, and take a deep breath before she can continue onward.

Tarrant had done her a tremendous favor, she realizes, in releasing her from that promise. True, she's lost all that she'd gained – her purpose, her Hatter... But that only means the last four months have been erased, doesn't it? She's just Alice again. Whoever that is. Whoever that will be now that she's... free.

_Free._ She tries – and fails – to think of a more miserable word.

Alice reaches the main gate and stops, considering the world before her. It's difficult to know where to go. Someplace where there are no Outlanders, no mercenaries, no laughing beasts. No one for her to attack or hurt or kill...

For a moment, her thoughts conjure up the image of a looking glass. But even as lost as she is, she can't bring herself to seriously consider locating one and fleeing to her mother's bedroom through it. She will not _run away._ She will _make a choice._

Only, which one ought she make?

Alice sighs. "I feel like a little girl again." And much less muchier. Muchless.

There's a slight breeze against her nose an instant before a brilliantly blue butterfly flutters in front of her eyes. Alice flinches back and makes a face. Of course, with all of the things she has to deal with – and _can't _deal with at the moment – naturally, Absolem would show up to remind her just how stupid she is. How _not hardly _Alice she is.

"You have no idea how glad I am you can't talk anymore," she informs him.

His antennae twitch irritably. He flutters to the right, along the outside of the castle wall, wandering at a languid pace. Alice watches him for a moment, but then he stops, alights on the white stone wall, turns toward her and waves her closer with an odd curling motion of his antennae.

With no other options at the moment, she does as he requests. "I hope you're not going to get me into trouble. I'm dangerous now, you know. Mad. A mercenary. A murderer."

All of which start with the letter 'M', she thinks idly.

Absolem doesn't appear to care, however.

Twice, she stops, just to see if he really _is _trying to get her to follow him somewhere. And each time he lands on the wall and motions her to continue. When she rounds the corner, she blinks at the sight of Absolem just touching down on the Bandersnatch's head, next to his ear which twitches. The beast turns his great head toward Alice and seems to be both listening to Absolem's inaudible whisper and considering Alice.

"Grrrrb?" he asks her, waddling closer.

Alice just smiles and scratches his nose and the bony place between his eyes. He relishes the attention until Absolem flaps his wings impatiently, tickling the Bandersnatch's floppy ear.

Huffing, he informs Alice, "Gr. Gr. Grrrrt!" And moves up next to her until it only requires a single, small leap to throw herself onto his back.

She hesitates and considers Absolem, watching her and somehow looking thoroughly put out from the top of one furry ear. "And just where do you think I need to be right now?" she asks him, knowing he can't possibly answer. "Perhaps you've found another Jabberwocky for me to slay?" she half-jokes, half-accuses.

Absolem flutters into the air and hovers over the Bandersnatch's head. If he'd had his hookah, he would have been tapping the mouthpiece against one of his many feet in irritation.

Alice sighs and considers the Bandersnatch.

Well, she thinks, why not? It hurts too much to stay in Mamoreal. Perhaps Absolem is right; perhaps what she needs is a different place. A place with no memories of the Queen's Champion.

"Bandy," she says, stroking his fur. "Don't you let me hurt anyone. Sometimes I lose my temper and..." Her hand fists in his shaggy pelt.

"Grrb grrrr."

Wondering if that solemn-sounding purr can be considered a promise, Alice climbs onto his back, settles herself between his shoulder blades and holds on. She doesn't look back at Mamoreal this time, either. Not because she thinks she'll see the Tarrant Hightopp standing – waiting for her – under the boughs of the cheery trees, but because she secretly fears that, were she to give in and look back, she would find the castle, its occupants, and all hope... gone. A dream, a figment of her imagination, she can live with, but one more nightmare will destroy her.

* * *

Sometimes, Chessur almost hates Tarrant Hightopp.

_The foolish, self-absorbed, angsting twit!_

Had he not distinctly heard the queen order him to _not _overwhelm Alice?

Chessur rolls his eyes. Perhaps he hadn't. That hatter's bloody madness. Nothing good comes of it anymore. True, it had been quite useful during the reign of the Red Queen. Chessur had even admired him – just the tiniest bit – for it. It had certainly served the Hatter, his political proclivities, and Alice well enough during Stayne's merciless interrogation in the dungeons of Salazen Grum. More than once, Chessur had found himself averting his invisible eyes. But Tarrant Hightopp... Oh, that man had locked himself up in his madness and _laughed _through the pain.

_He's not laughing now,_ Chessur admits, remembering the look on Tarrant's face as he'd sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the back of his left hand – his heart line.

_Stupid, slurvish, idiotic, dense, irritating idiot!_

For a man with a legitimate claim to utter, mad genius, he has a rather bad habit of making mistakes: overwhelming Alice with his guilt over that ridiculous promise, shoving the madness in her face, allowing her to injure him – Honestly, what had the man _expected _to happen after that? Even Chessur knows Alice well enough to imagine the remorse she'd feel from harming him, no matter the circumstances! – ignoring her own confessions of pain, and finally – worst of all! – _letting her walk away!_

Yes, Chessur is _very _glad he's a cat and, as such, immune the ailment of love.

"You're lucky I'm smarter than you, Tarrant," Chessur drawls, hovering – invisible – above the outer wall of the castle. He watches Alice swing herself up onto the Bandersnatch, which lumbers forward two steps before galloping after Absolem.

Curious, Chessur follows. He floats through the woods, twisting and twirling through the treetops, keeping the massive speckled body of the Bandersnatch in his sights as he can't see Absolem very clearly though the canopy and shadow-dappled realm below.

_Hmm, yes... Absolem..._

_His _presence had been a surprise. The butterfly hardly ever bothers with living creatures any more. Apparently, the loss of the Oraculum following the Battle of Frabjous Day had made him even more surly. Not that Chessur had cared one way or the other. Those who seek out Absolem's counsel seek their own futures; they seek the knowledge that the keeper of the Oraculum possesses. Chessur is a cat and cats do not have any interest in changing the future. No, certainly not! Cats are smart enough to stay out of the way of Jabberwockies and prophecies and dungeons and everything else associated with politics!

Underlanders could stand to learn a thing or two from cats, Chessur thinks.

_Too bad they're too stupid to realize even that much._

Perhaps he's being uncharitable. But, after all, he's a cat.

_I am what I am,_ he muses with a grin.

When the wilderness deepens and they pass into Tulgey Wood, Chessur feels a slight frown pull at his brow. Certainly, Absolem wouldn't take Alice to the abandoned tea party at the March Hare's rundown windmill... would he? An hour passes, as does the small trail leading to that once-dreary clearing where he'd led a much smaller maybe-Alice over three years ago. Chessur lets out a sigh of relief, which turns into confusion when the Bandersnatch follows a path that hasn't been used for years. Not since...

A trifle concerned now – and resenting it! – Chessur continues his silent pursuit through the gathering twilight, the tangled branches, and the rising mist. _Why _would Absolem lead _anyone _– let alone Alice! – to _this _cursed place?

As the living trees fall further and further behind them, and the mist deepens and swirls in the night breeze, Chessur thinks his perfect eyes must be playing tricks on him. After all, there is no way there could be a white-green-blue light up ahead. There's no such phenomenon in all of Underland. And Chessur should know. He's seen nearly every corner of it. And several he wishes he hadn't. But the light does not fade and disappear when he wills it to. Inexplicably, it's real.

From the depths of the mist-engulfed clearing, Alice's voice floats back to him on the breeze.

"I... I don't believe this...!"

And, a moment later, when the mist thins enough for Chessur to take in the sight for himself, he finds himself agreeing with her. He barely listens as two voices converse – one pitched with shock and awe and the other weighted with countless years and sorrows. It's not until the Bandersnatch turns in Chessur's direction, sniffs the air, and scans the mist with his beady, yellowed eyes that the cat takes his leave. After all, Alice is safe with Absolem and the Bandersnatch. And Chessur is quite sure it's gotten late enough for Alice to be missed at Mamoreal.

And, of course, he's right.

When he arrives, the entire castle is lit with torches and bustling with soldiers searching behind drapes, under armchairs, and in wardrobes. Chessur doesn't bother to interrupt them. He takes his information directly to the queen. Well, the queen and whomever she happens to be speaking with at the moment, which just happens to be...

"_I di'nae __**care i'they've found NAUGHT! SEND TH'BLOODY GUARD OUT **__**FURTHER**__**!**_"

The queen doesn't flinch away from the force of his temper. "I'm sure Leif wouldn't mind tracking her if—"

Tarrant doesn't let her finish that thought. In a deadly, dangerously, quiet voice, the Hatter informs her, "_Ye'll send tha'creature out after Alice o'er my dead, lifeless body. Yer Majesty._"

Chessur sighs. It looks like it's time to intercede before the fool says something he'll have to be Pardoned for later. Clearing his throat, Chessur dares to make himself visible without invitation and informs them, "Alice is fine. She's with Absolem and the Bandersnatch."

Tarrant's eyes narrow. "Th'Bandersnatch!" He turns back to the queen. "Send out Bayard again an'tell'im Alice's scent is bein' obscured by that frumious beast."

The queen narrows her eyes at him and ignores the order. Turning to Chessur, she asks, "Where is she?"

Chessur hesitates and does his damnedest not to glance at Tarrant and give away his reason for hesitating. "I'd rather not say. She seems to need time... away."

An inarticulate growl vibrates out from between Tarrant's clenched teeth. "Ye _saw _her leave, _followed _her and yet ye di'nae try teh _stop her!_"

"Neither did you!" Chessur hisses. "Foolish, ridiculous, dimwitted _man!_ Tell Alice she's not really a Champion, tell her you made her into a murderer and a mercenary! Show her she's utterly mad and then _just let her leave! _**What were you THINKING?**"

Out of the corner of his eye, Chessur notices a movement: the White Queen buries her face in her hands and sighs with frustration.

Tarrant's fists clench, drawing Chessur's full attention.

"_Ye... were listenin' when Alice an' I were...?_"

"When you were completely and utterly botching your explanation?" the cat supplies spitefully. "Yes, I'm afraid I was. A _fine _moment, Tarrant. _Truly._ I dare say, one of your very **best.** Only you would be capable of such utter _shukm!_"

"Gentlemen," the queen softly interjects. "If it is an argument you'd like to indulge in at this point, please do so outside. The croquet pitch is open all hours. Do your worst to each other and be done with this unpleasantness once and for all."

Chessur blinks. "I... beg your pardon, Your Majesty?"

The queen looks up and he finally realizes how utterly exhausted she must be. "Chessur, I thank you for keeping an eye on Alice, but I must ask you and Tarrant to remove your disagreement from this office. As Alice is safe and well at the moment, and representatives from Shuchland and Galandonland will be arriving to discuss the situation with Jaspien and his hired army on the morrow _and_ I've yet to prepare for that meeting," she gives them both a stern look, "I'm afraid I won't be able to mediate your dispute. Good _night_."

Chessur takes the hint and evaporates into the hallway beyond. A moment later, there's a muffled protest from Tarrant that filters through the door and then the portal opens and is slammed shut behind a furious Royal Hatter.

"A bit gentler on the handling, if you don't mind!" the doorknob remarks. "I'm an original fixture!"

Neither Chessur nor the Hatter reply. They stare at each other. Chessur finds himself wishing he could still see the scrapes Alice had given him on his face. _That remedy of the queen's works a bit __**too**_ _well,_ he muses.

"Is that what you want, Tarrant? A fight?"

Something flashes in the man's eyes. "Maybe I do. But ye'll ne'er figh'fair, ye slurvish, cheatin'—"

Chessur draws himself up. "I'll make you the same bargain I made Alice during her training. I'll not evaporate." He grins tightly. "I'll even take your shape, Tarrant, so you can fight both me and yourself at the same time."

"_Ye..._"

Chessur takes in the man's flashing eyes and taut muscles. "I _live _to accommodate you, yes, I know. You don't have to thank me for it."

With a snarl, Tarrant turns on his heel and marches down the hall and in the general direction of the hat workshop. Chessur watches him go and muses at the odd twinge of disappointment.

How very strange... if Chessur hadn't known himself better – if he hadn't _known _he were a cat through and true! – he would have to believe that he _regrets _the lost opportunity to fight Tarrant Hightopp.

But, of course, Chessur _does _know himself better – much better! – than that. Chin held high and tail straight, he marches off to find a bit of torchlight to bask in.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 11: Scene 1 & 2 of 3]


	64. Book 2, Fields of Iplam, 2 of 2

**__****Chapter Eleven: Fields of Iplam**** [Scene 3 of 3]**

"I know this place," Alice says, turning in a slow circle. In the darkening dusk, she studies the meadow and distant trees. "But it looks so different now... This is...?"

She looks over at her companion.

The creature lowers its great, crested head and nods. "Iplam," it replies.

"Krystoval," she continues, addressing the Jabberwocky. "Why did you come back here?"

"To heal, Alice," it replies gravely.

Alice reaches out a places a hand on the Jabberwocky's reptilian shoulder. It blinks at the gesture, glances at her hand but does not seem particularly bothered by it. "It's lonely here," she murmurs, her heart aching with the thought of this creature confronting its past and engaging in such a huge undertaking all alone.

"It will not always be so," the creature rumbles quietly. "People and animals will return here someday and rebuild. Then the circle will be complete."

"Have you thought about what you will do when you're done here?"

"I have," it replies solemnly. "But, for now, it is impossible."

Alice pats the smooth scales under her hand. "When the time is right, you'll find a way. I'm sure of it."

Krystoval studies her face with its dawn-colored eyes. "I'm sure you are," it agrees and Alice feels her lips curve into a smile. "May I ask what brought you here, Alice?" it asks after a moment.

Alice nods in the direction of the Bandersnatch – curled up by the line of trees and the trailhead – and the blue butterfly resting on its nose.

"The Bandersnatch, with a wise butterfly leading the way."

"And why did you follow?"

Alice returns her attention to the Jabberwocky. "I... well, it's a long story. To put it bluntly, I'm not really a Champion after all. But I _have _killed someone. And I _became _a mercenary. And I also seem to be rather... mad."

"Ah..." Krystoval sighs and sinks down into a comfortable crouch, curling its tail around its body and nodding for Alice to make herself comfortable on it. "Welcome to the Fields of Iplam, then, Alice."

Settling herself in the juncture of the Jabberwocky's thigh and stomach, with her legs draped over its tail, she muses, "You know what I'm referring to?"

It nods. "I do. Like any path, yours leads two ways, Alice. Here... or _there._"

She frowns. "What's _there?_"

"Madness. Guilt. Fear. Darkness," it replies softly. And then, surprisingly, asks, "How fares the last of the Hightopps?"

Alice gasps as an epiphany slams into her in the wake of the Jabberwocky's pointed inquiry.

She closes her eyes.

_Tarrant..._

Oh, how stupid she is!

For a moment, there are too many thoughts collecting together inside her head for her to understand them all, but then they condense into two facts:

_Tarrant is mad... he followed this path __**there... **__to the pain and guilt and madness._

And:

_He would have understood if I'd bothered to tell him... if I'd been strong enough to let go of the fear and the darkness and the memories of Causwick._

But it's too late to go back to him now. And it's not safe. Perhaps Tarrant _can _understand the darkness and pain within her. But Alice still has no control over it and she knows she can't trust him to stop her from hurting him. Not when his own guilt and pain drives him to accept whatever punishment – intentional and not – that she might deal out upon him.

No, she cannot go back to him. Not until...

Alice takes a deep breath and opens her eyes. It's nearly completely dark out. Above the bare branches of the burnt trees, the moon is rising.

"Tarrant is not well," she replies.

Krystoval rumbles, acknowledging the information.

"Tell me about... _here_," she asks.

"Here..." the Jabberwocky muses quietly. "This is the place in which one opens oneself to the past, faces the mistakes and memories, burns through the regret, and creates life."

Alice closes her eyes against a hot rush of tears. "What's the first step?" she asks.

"You've arrived. You've asked the question. You've found the willingness," he replies, listing three. "Now you must remember."

From Krystoval's tone, Alice understands _exactly _what it is she must remember: everything that has driven her away from her life at Mamoreal. Throat suddenly tense and tight, Alice swallows. "Do you mind if I... talk for a bit?"

"Not at all, Alice. You may talk, and I may listen. If you talk too quietly, I may even snore."

Alice releases a breathless laugh and feels quite a bit of her tension expell with it. "Not long ago, I accompanied the White Queen to Shuchland where we met the king and queen and a prince named Avendale and his Champion named Avenleif..."

She watches the moon rise as she speaks, narrating the entire tale, leaving nothing out, no matter how irrelevant to the painful times that follow. And follow they do:

"... an Outlander by the name of Davon was my handler. His voice and his Outlandish reminded me of Tarrant. There's even a certain similarity in their height and build... Davon had a sense of humor, darker than Tarrant's, but the smile was so alike somehow and yet he was the enemy..."

"...'Alice Lassling' is what they called me. A joke. I suppose they thought it was funny that someone my size, my age, wouldn't hesitate to rip them apart with only my teeth. I think I was... mad even then..."

"... so alone, and yet I could feel him so close. The emotions would invade my heart and I'd know it wasn't _me _feeling them, so it must have been _him_ but that would only remind me of what I'd done, what I was still doing, what I might yet have to do."

Alice lets the memories pause there. The agony of reliving it is too powerful to be pushed aside or rushed. Behind her, Krystoval shifts a bit.

"May I see it? Your heart line?" it asks.

By the light of the moon, Alice pulls off her shirt and reveals the markings on her skin.

"I've never seen a darker, more beautiful Bonding Mark," the Jabberwocky informs her. "And I've seen a fair share in my time."

"I suppose you have." She shrugs back into her garment.

"The Heart Mark has a meaning, you know," it continues, musing. "Each is completely unique."

"Tarrant's is a four-pointed star."

"No, _you_ make it a four-pointed star. Just as _he _makes yours that charming ellipse."

Alice frowns, puzzled. "What do the shapes mean?"

Krystoval chuckles. "You already know, Alice. The shape – and thus, the meaning – comes from within you."

She considers that for a moment.

"Tell me more about the mercenaries," Krystoval invites softly.

Alice takes a deep breath, realizes that – somehow – she'd shed a layer of pain and sorrow during that brief interlude, and begins to speak.

The moon wanders across the sky and Krystoval continues asking her about Causwick, about the things she'd done, the things she'd said, the things she'd forced herself to believe in order to do what had had to be done. She marvels at how... well, not _easy_ – for recalling and talking of these things is anything _but _easy – but she marvels at how _possible _it is now. Perhaps she had simply needed the right audience.

"So, I never was a Champion," she concludes. "I don't really know what to do with myself now, to be honest."

Krystoval sighs. "Alice, you are under a misapprehension."

"Which is?"

It turns its rose-then-peach-and-gold eyes to her and says, "I know a Champion when I see one, Alice. And I see one now. No promise could make you into something you are not. It might give you a small measure of strength to help you achieve it, but that is all."

Alice considers that. "If that's true then... it didn't make me kill Stayne. That was _me_."

"It was. Can you think of no motivation for why you would have felt it necessary to kill him?"

Alice can think of several. "He'd tortured Tarrant. When I arrived three years ago," she clarifies. "And I knew he'd never give up trying to get to the queen. To do that, he'd have to get through me. And to do that, he'd have to..." Alice swallows. "He'd have to get through Tarrant. I couldn't let him be hurt by that... _beast _anymore."

Krystoval waits, expectant.

Alice forces herself to say it: "I killed Stayne for Tarrant."

She takes a deep breath and feels a lightening sensation somewhere deep within her chest.

"And now tell me why you forsook your beloved, scorned your heart line, became a mercenary."

Alice smiles, "For Tarrant."

"And why do you fight, Alice?"

"For Tarrant. For my home. For the goodness of the White Queen. For Underland and all the creatures in it who call it home and make it what it is."

Krystoval leans its head against hers briefly. "Welcome back, Champion Alice."

Alice smiles. The moon blurs as if the world has suddenly been flipped upside down and Alice is studying its reflection on the surface of calm, ocean waves. "Thank you, Krystoval."

"None are needed," it says, looking up at the sky. "Giver of the Vorpal Sword."

They watch the moon shimmer across the sky until Alice asks the Jabberwocky to tell her its story and it does. And when dawn comes, a new purpose, a new hope arrives with it... for a Champion and a Jabberwocky lying in the Fields of Iplam.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 11]


	65. Book 2, The Champion Returns, 1 of 3

**__****Chapter Twelve: The Champion Returns**** [Scene 1 of 3]**

When Alice opens her eyes, she smiles and remains leaning against the Jabberwocky's stomach, counting the gentle exhalations and inhalations of its breath. She glances up and smiles wider at the wing thrown over her to shield her from the sun. When she stirs, the wing lifts, letting the mid-afternoon sunlight pour down on her.

"Well, look who finally decided to wake up..."

Squinting, Alice turns and shakes her head with wry amusement. "Hello, Chessur. Are you the rescue party?"

He grins. "It's not a party without sweets and tea, Alice," he chides her. "And I don't believe you need rescuing any longer, do you?"

"No," she admits slowly. "I don't think I do."

"That's just as well. The Queen could use her Champion back." He consults the sun and estimates, "The allies of the White Crown have no doubt arrived by now and are currently arguing over how best to dispose of a prince, a viscount, and a lord I believe you're acquainted with."

Alice sighs.

"Leave Alice be for a bit longer, Cat-With-Evaporating-Skills. The rest will benefit more than just her," the Jabberwocky scolds him without rancor.

Alice turns, intending to ask Krystoval if Chessur had properly introduced himself, but the scene spread out before her makes her forget the thought.

"Oh, my..." Last night, in the shadowy light of the setting sun, she'd gotten the faintest impression of new grass and stubby, scrawny bushes, but now...!

Iplam is a field again, a sea of waving, thick green grass. Surrounding the meadow, the trees are budding and the mosses and ivy are lush again. Utterly flunderwhapped, Alice turns toward Krystoval and watches as the Jabberwocky gently breathes a glowing, white-aqua mist at a tiny plant sprouting in front of it. She watches as with each breath, the leaves pulse with life and vitality and health, unfurling and reaching for the sun. In the next breath, a small bud pokes up through the stalk. It takes two more breaths before the blossom opens completely and Alice stares at the most beautiful flower she's ever seen. It's simple and yet so elegant. It resembles a five-fingered hand. The petals are a familiar pale gold with tiny brown freckles down the center lengthwise. But that warm color fades and blends into the most stunning aqua at the center where an emerald green stamen rises, awaiting a visit from a honeybee.

"Krystoval, that's..." Words fail her.

"The first of an entire field full," the Jabberwocky replies and Alice marvels at the pure happiness in its tone, in its expression.

Alice slides off of the Jabberwocky's tail and approaches the creation. Gently tickling the flower under one petal – to which the flower snuggles a bit closer with a giggle – Alice asks, "What's it called?"

"I haven't decided yet," it replies and Alice looks up, startled. This is a _new _flower? And the Jabberwocky had created this with its _fire?_ With a warm glance, it says, "But, I'm seriously considering calling it the 'Champion's Blossom'... or perhaps the 'Alice Flower'... or maybe both."

"It's... amazing," she manages, honored beyond words that something has been created and named for her.

"Only insofar as its inspiration is," the Jabberwocky tells her with a gentle smile.

Alice smiles back and gingerly cups the blossom in her hands. The petals startle before fluffing up a bit as the flower preens and glows with the attention. She looks down at it and has to choke back tears. Balls, parties, medals, titles, finery... none of it compares to this gift, this recognition of her contribution to this world.

"Thank you, Krystoval."

"And thank you, Alice. For, I do believe you finished healing an old Jabberwocky last night."

Fear and hesitation long gone, Alice reaches out and strokes the colorful scales along Krystoval's brow. Alice still feels there is something left unsaid, something more she ought to offer to help acknowledge the gift Krystoval had created for Underland in her name. "If you ever feel the need, do not hesitate to call upon me," she murmurs.

"Likewise, Champion of the White Queen and the Hightopp Clan."

Alice sighs. "I'm not a Champion," she reminds it. And then she winks. "Not yet!"

Krystoval chuckles warmly. "Then you best get back to it and leave me to my work."

Impulsively, Alice presses a kiss just above the Jabberwocky's whisker and then she heads across the field. The Bandersnatch looks up as she approaches and shuffles to his feet. Perched on his ear, the blue butterfly flutters his wings with slow relish, basking in his own cleverness. Alice shakes her head and grins. _Butterflies truly are the vainest, most prideful creatures, _she thinks.

She says, "Thank you, Absolem."

And then, turning to the Bandersnatch, Alice asks, "Are you ready to go home?"

He huffs enthusiastically and Alice swings herself onto his back. She takes one last look over her shoulder as the Jabberwocky – with Chessur leaning over its shoulder, watching – gently breathes against the swaying grass... and, just before the Bandersnatch galumphs off into the woods, she thinks she sees another flower join the first.

_I'll come back,_ she promises herself as the meadow is veiled by the trees. Yes, later, after everything is over and done with, she'll return to this place just to see what other miracles Krystoval's magic has wrought.

With a sigh, she focuses on the path a head of her. She knows exactly where she's going this time: back to Mamoreal, to the queen, to the life and the man she'd thought she'd lost.

_Tarrant..._ Oh, how she wants to see him, to be _with_ him, but... Her heart thumps out a languid, painful pulse. Alice swallows and takes a deep breath. Yes, she wants to go home to him. More than anything. But she can't. Not yet. Not _quite _yet.

First, she must finish what has been started. First, she must help the queen deal with the issue of Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer's nefarious allegiance. As the Bandersnatch thunders through Tulgey Wood, Alice turns the problem over and over in her mind and bit by bit, a possible solution comes to her.

By the time Chessur decides to catch up with them, Alice is more than ready to see him.

"You're late," she informs him with a knowing smile as he appears beside her.

The cat blinks. "I do _beg _your pardon, Alice?"

She laughs. "Now _that's _something I never thought I'd hear coming from _you._"

"Hmm. Well, what did you expect? It's quite rude to inform someone of their own tardiness."

"Tarrant's done it once or twice to me," she replies.

"My point _exactly._"

Alice glances at Chessur as she evaluates his tone. "Something's happened. You were on better terms with Tarrant the day before yesterday."

"He hadn't been such an utter _fumptwat_ the day before yesterday."

Alice snorts. "A _fumptwat?_ That's a new one."

Chessur clears his throat. "Ah... and perhaps it's best if you forget hearing that."

"It's not a term of endearment, I take it?"

"Not hardly."

Alice decides to change the subject while there's still time for small talk... and before she gets offended on Tarrant's behalf. "So, you'll be keeping an eye on the Jabberwocky, I suppose?"

"Hm? Oh, well, I _could_. I wouldn't mind." Chessur grins to himself. "Krystoval's a rather interesting conversationalist, you know."

Alice aims her wide, wise smile at the Bandersnatch's ear. "Yes, I had noticed that." Clearing her throat, she inquires lightly, "So, if I had a message that needed to be delivered to the Jabberwocky, you wouldn't mind terribly being the one to give it, would you?"

"Oh, no," Chessur assures her, still with an air of distraction. "Marvelous sense of humor Krystoval has. Droll, wry, witty..."

Alice turns her laugh into a cough. "Quite," she agrees.

Chessur continues grinning.

Absolem continues fluttering ahead.

The Bandersnatch continues huffing with each galumphing stride.

And Alice knows she can't put it off any longer. Soon, they'll arrive at Mamoreal and she will have to be ready for that. She goes over the plan again...

"I know that look, _Champion _Alice."

Alice gives Chessur a sheepish grin. "Yes, I suppose you've seen it before."

"Precisely twice," he informs her and she knows which occasions exactly he's referring to: the Trial of Threes, as she'd worked out the puzzle of the Jabberwocky and the Vorpal Sword; and then on the eve of her duel against Stayne. Chessur continues, "I know the look of Uplander logic when I see it. What _are _you contemplating now?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Alice promises. "If the queen approves."

"Well, best of luck to you," he grumbles. "Explaining the convoluted way your Uplander mind works."

Alice chuckles.

"So, you'll be speaking to the queen. Will that be happening before or after you deal with Tarrant?"

Alice winces and struggles not to notice the aching of her heart too much. "I..."

"Don't have to do a blasted thing about him if you don't want to. It would serve him right to spend a week or two in... introspection."

With a rueful shake of her head, Alice replies, "What I want or _don't _want doesn't matter just at the moment." She hides a grimace at the memory of that first, fateful dinner in Causwick when she'd thought much the same thing, although far more desperately. "There's no time. We have to respond to Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer or the queen is never going to be safe. They might even grow confident enough to risk an attack within our borders!"

"And you've already devised a strategy to counter the threat, haven't you, dear Alice?" Chessur purrs with curiosity.

She tilts her head a bit, conceding the point. "It requires a lot of coordination and a fair bit of luck and even a shape-shifting cat with evaporating skills, but, yes, there's a way to finish this. For good."

"You'll need _my _help, Alice?"

Alice sends a sidelong glance at the chuffed creature and chuckles. "Most definitely, Chess. Most definitely." Again, Alice takes a moment to run through the sequence of events that will have to happen. "Keep up with me when we get to the castle," she tells him. "A lot of things are going to have to happen awfully fast for this to work..."

Chessur sighs. "I'm constantly disappointed with the fact that you never saw my performance at the chopping block for the Red Queen. I was _quite_ fast!"

"I'm very sorry I missed that."

She twitches when Chessur tickles her ear with his tail. "You would have squeezed your eyes shut at the critical moment anyway."

Alice barks out a laugh. Not because the comment had been humorous, but because it had been so absolutely _true._ "Yes, watching a man swing an axe over Tarrant's neck is not something I _ever _want to see."

"Even after all that he's done?"

"I... what?"

Chessur rolls his eyes. "The man is so afraid of losing you he doesn't even notice that it's he himself who throws you away. He's such a fool."

Alice considers that, damns the horrid timing of this personal crisis, and muses, "I suppose love does that. To everyone."

"Humph. Not to cats, I'll have you know. We don't speak the language."

"Good for you," she replies, but thinking of a certain droll, wry, _witty _Jabberwocky, can't resist a grin.

The rest of the journey is accomplished in silence. It's just past brillig when they thunder up the castle drive and the Bandersnatch peddles to a halt at the bottom of the stairs. True to her word, Alice slides down off the Bandersnatch and hits the ground running. Chessur follows her through the main doors.

"Where to first?"

"The armory," Alice tells him, sprinting for it. She knows this route – perhaps not the _most _direct – will cause her to pass by the hat workshop. Oddly enough, Chessur doesn't comment on that fact, for which Alice is _deeply _grateful.

And she races down the hall, nearing the hat workshop, she notes the door – slightly ajar! – and wonders if Tarrant is within, if he's working on creating – or destroying – another beautiful hat...

A moment later, as she passes by, her musings are answered.

"_Alice?_"

She turns, still moving quickly in the direction of the army store room, and assures him, "Yes, I'm fine. But I _must_ to talk to the queen."

She glimpses his confused frown. "You're going the wrong way," he replies.

And then she hears his footsteps, racing in counterpoint to hers as he attempts to close the gap between them. Alice speeds up a bit, for if Tarrant were to catch up with her _here _in this very _public _and _echoing _hallway, things will become even _more _complicated than they already are...

With a sigh of relief, Alice barrels into the armory, throws down her satchel and proceeds to grab and test the weight of a broadsword and several knives. The door just manages to close behind her when it's thrown open again by Tarrant.

She half expects him to race up to her, grab her arms and... be himself: rambling with eyes flashing and his mind wandering, his impassioned brogue making her heart race and her blood heat even as he says something that she fully expects to disagree with.

But... he doesn't.

"What are you doing?" he asks, merely watching from just inside the door as Alice starts pulling off her boots.

"I should think that's obvious," Chessur drawls, averting his eyes. "Mannerless buffoon," the cat grumbles and flicks his tail.

Alice hurriedly gets changed into a set of clean clothes. There's no time to wash up, but at least she won't be covered in Bandersnatch hair when she makes an appearance in the queen's office.

Despite Tarrant's simple inquiry, Alice can't bring herself to answer. She knows he doesn't want her to do what she's preparing to do. She knows it'll hurt him to hear her say the words. She knows it'll hurt him to learn that she's putting the queen before him and their life and their future.

But Alice doesn't have a _choice!_

Deal with the threat before you deal with the fallout, she tells herself. It's hard advice to follow, even if it is her own, especially with the man she loves standing, watching, _hoping _just a few paces away.

She reaches for the borrowed weapons, wishing for the gauntlets Tarrant had fashioned for her and the sword the queen had requested made for her – all lost within Causwick Castle.

"No," he whispers on a strangled-sounding breath. "Please, Alice, _you can't!_"

She bites back the reassurances that struggle up her throat. She must stick to her _plan! _"I can. I will. _I am._"

She turns just in time to see Tarrant's left hand curl into a first – his right is still in a splint – and shake his head vigorously.

Before he can argue, she strides over to him and takes his face in her hands. She only has a moment, so she makes the most of it. She kisses him hard, once. "The queen needs her Champion," she reminds him. "I have to."

He blinks. And when he comprehends her words, he shakes his head furiously. "But your... the madness, Alice. I can't lose... No, no, I've already lost... Am I lost, Alice?"

"_No,_" she replies firmly. "All is not lost. But we don't have _time._ Please. Trust me."

She waits until his fingertips touch her hands, until he takes a deep breath and the disturbing yellow of stress and urgency fades from his eyes, until he nods.

"Thank you," she says, sparing one more instant to brush her thumbs over his cheekbones. And then she knows she _must _go.

"Meet me on the solarium terrace after sunset, all right?"

She waits long enough to see him nod and then she darts around him for the door. There's a queen to save, a plan to explain, a strategy to implement, and one more thing to do before any of that can be addressed.

_Botheration!_ She'd nearly forgotten!

"Chess," she pants, hurrying down the corridor again, "do you have any idea where—"

"Champion Alice?"

At the sound of _that _familiar voice, Alice pulls herself up, turns, and regards the obviously startled and irritated-looking, dark-maned lion.

"Never mind," Alice says. She steps toward Leif, gently pushes him into the nearest available room and sets her most immediate objective in motion.

**

* * *

****[End of Chapter 12: Scene 1 of 3]**


	66. Book 2, The Champion Returns, 2 of 3

**__****Chapter Twelve: The Champion Returns**** [Scene 2 of 3]**

Hats. Hats have always been Tarrant's salvation. Or rather, the attention they require – _his _attention – has always been his salvation. The blend of necessary tasks and creative license has somehow always had the power to calm him, focus him, push the madness back.

Yes, hat-making has saved him numerous times before.

Unfortunately, it seems to have lost its magic.

He had thought of nothing but Alice's farewell – "_I don't deserve you, Tarrant Hightopp... I can't stay. I __**can't.**_" – and Chessur's accusations – "_Show her she's utterly mad and then __**just let her leave!**_" – and, at some point during the night, he'd made a very belated discovery:

Despite all of the mistakes he's made and all of the pain he's inflicted upon Alice, he _cannot live without her!_

Yes, he _knows _he doesn't deserve another chance. He's _aware _that what he's done is unforgivable. But that doesn't change the fact that he will do _whatever he must to __**win her back!**_

He'd very nearly set his tools down and had gone to find her in that very moment, but then he'd remembered: _Alice is gone. Left._ And he'd realized that there is nothing to do but wait. He must wait for Alice to come back. He had forfeited any control he may have had over that when he'd ruthlessly cut her down and then had _not_ stopped her from walking away.

He'd tried – he really _had! _– to distract himself from Alice's sudden absence. He'd spent all night working on... well, on something! It's very odd that he can't recall so much as a detail of it now. Had it been a cloche? A snood? A barboosh? He can't recall. In fact, the only memory his mind seems to care to recall at the moment is the instant Alice had returned:

Tarrant had hardly dared to hope when he'd heard hurried steps approaching from down the corridor. The rhythm of the gate had been as familiar as his own. With each thudding footstep, he'd felt his disbelief melt away and his heart race faster: _That's the sound of two Alice-feet!_ He'd know the sound of her anywhere!

For an instant, his heart had leapt and his cravat had fluffed – _Is she racing... __**here?**_ _To speak to... __**me?**_ – and, for an instant, he could almost imagine their reunion, her forgiveness, their _future...!_

And then she'd raced _right past the open doorway!_

"_Alice?_" In the next instant, Tarrant had thrown the door open completely and charged into the hallway.

He'd stared as she hadn't even slowed. "Yes, I'm fine. But I _must_ to talk to the queen," she'd called over her shoulder.

For a moment, Tarrant had wondered if he were in the middle of another delusion, but Chessur's snide grin had assured him of the reality of Alice _here! Returned!_

Ignoring the bloody beast he'd never **allow** to invade his delusions, Tarrant had latched onto Alice's odd non sequitur – shouldn't she be... _with __**him?**_ She's _his __**wife**_, after all, but then again he _still_ hasn't actually _asked _her permission to be her husband! – and had heard himself muse aloud, "You're going the wrong way."

The sound of his own voice – _Is that __**all**_ _ye have to say, lad?_ – had startled him and he'd raced after her, charging through the door she'd just disappeared behind. For a moment, he could only _look_ at her: she's safe and well and _whole _and her eyes contain not a pinch of _lostness_, not an ounce of misery, not a smidgen of guilt...

Alice has re-found her _muchness!_

And that's when he'd noticed the borrowed broadsword on the bench, the knives she'd intended to strap to her ankles, and the garrote destined to be coiled and slipped into the pocket of a clean tunic. Watching her lean down to remove her boots, he'd taken in the assortment of weapons – _a Champion's _weapons – and had demanded, "What are you doing?"

Tarrant had ignored that bloody cat's contemptuous remark and had stood numb as Alice's intentions had become clear, _very _clear, _too _clear. When she'd stood and had buckled the broadsword into place at her hip, he'd finally found his voice:

"No... Please, Alice, _you can't!_"

Well, of course not! Alice is _mad,_ after all. She might... She could... And if she does, she will...

Tarrant hadn't been able to bear thinking the Thought.

Alice had merely adjusted the sword and had informed him: "I can. I will. _I am._" She'd approached him, then, and he'd hoped... His worry and fear had receded as she'd touched his face, as she'd leaned in and kissed him. _She'd kissed him!_

_Could this mean...? Does this mean she forgives...? _he'd wondered frantically.

But then she'd said, "The queen needs her Champion. I have to."

_No, no, no, no, __**no, no, NO...!**_

Somehow, he'd managed to locate the words, if not the proper grammatical functions necessary for expressing them: "But your... the madness, Alice. I can't lose... No, no, I've already lost... Am I lost, Alice?"

"_No."_ And her voice had been as firm and as comforting as the warm palms against his cheeks. "All is not lost. But we don't have _time._ Please. Trust me."

_Trust her?_ Of course Tarrant trusts her! Whom else would he trust? Alice could never hide from him – the heart line would never permit deception between them! She might _hide_ what she feels, but Tarrant knows she would never intentionally... No, not _his Alice!_

_But __**is **__she __**your **__Alice, lad?_

He's not sure. But maybe... maybe if he can wait just a little longer, be a little stronger, maybe she will...

He'd reached for her hands but had forced himself not to grasp them. He'd felt her holding onto him, had allowed it to calm him. Alice had needed him to be calm, to be all right...

And when he'd finally nodded, his reward had been her beautifully whispered thanks, the sweet brush of her thumbs over his cheekbones, and an invitation:

"Meet me on the solarium terrace after sunset, all right?"

It had hurt to watch her spin away from him and disappear out the door. He'd been so close... _She'd _been so close...!

Tarrant opens his eyes and regards the view from the solarium terrace. He's early, but he couldn't have forced himself to arrive any later. Alice will be meeting him here at sunset and maybe _then _she will... they will... she might...!

He glares at the sun where it hovers just over the forests of Queast and _wills _it to sink faster!

"Hatter. What are _you _doing here?"

Tarrant stiffens and turns. His nose wrinkles in disgust as he regards that... that... "Leif. You're intruding on a private meeting," Tarrant informs him, doing his best to keep the Outlandish out of his voice and his tone civil, just in case Alice is in earshot.

The lion leans against one of the stone horse heads surrounding the terrace railing. "Actually, _I've _an appointment to meet someone here shortly, so that would make _you _the unwelcome party."

Tarrant's left hand fists at the accusation. "I suppose we'll just have to wait and see which of us will be asked to leave, although, I highly doubt _my wife _will have much to say to _you._"

"Your wife?" Leif asks with a sardonic lift of his brows. "Oh, you mean Champion Alice? Funny you should mention her, for it was _she _who invited me to meet her here before sunset."

Tarrant, showing far too many teeth for the gesture to be considered a smile, refuses to believe it.

"And another thing," Leif continues. "It's pretty presumptuous for you to call her your wife, isn't it? No one around here seems to remember an actual wedding taking place." The lion glances down at Tarrant's left hand – still fisted – and huffs a derisive snort. "Or was the Thrice a-Vow supposed to compensate for that? It doesn't, you know. Not on _this _side of the Outland mountains."

Tarrant can feel the madness creeping over him, burning him from the inside out. "You'll stay away from her, _cat._ Alice is _mine._"

The he-lion doesn't so much as shift in his pose, the perfect picture of ease. "Alice can make up her own mind about that," he replies lightly.

Tarrant clenches his jaw and locks his body in place to keep himself from—doing something—_very_—_**bad**_—to that... that...!

"Shall we have tea on terrace?" the queen's voice drifts over to them on the breeze.

Tarrant twitches, his gaze flitting from his rival, to the doorway, to the shadowy room beyond and then back to the terrace, his own fisted left hand, and the lion's befuddled expression.

"There's a lovely view from here, if you'll just follow me, sirs..."

And then the White Queen steps through the doors, pushing aside the gauzy curtains, and ushers a lion and a horse onto the terrace. At the sight of Tarrant and Leif, the queen freezes, her eyes widening. Tarrant barely notices, for following in her wake is Alice.

The sight of her soothes him in a way that is unique and absolute. He forgets about the queen, the visiting dignitaries, the shukm-lickering toadie...

"_What is the meaning of this!_" the lion at the queen's side roars, his golden eyes glaring at Leif. He turns his back on the former Champion and addresses the queen: "You... Your Magesty, tell me you have not granted these... this _traitor _or his former liege amnesty!"

Looking very pale and quite upset, the queen turns to the ambassador and explains, "I'm afraid I have, Sir Avendon. Both Leif and the former Prince Avendale are here at my invitation."

A moment of utter silence wraps the balcony and its occupants up in its suffocating embrace. And then:

"You _claimed _to be a friend of Shuchland, Mirana of Mamoreal..."

Alice steps closer to the queen, coming between the snarling lion and her queen.

Lifting her chin, the queen replies, "The Aven family have my full support."

"If that were true, you would not be harboring two betrayers to their crown."

"I would not punish them for remaining loyal to the _spirit_ of our alliance_,_ sir."

Alice places a hand on the hilt of her broadsword and Tarrant tenses, leans toward her, calculates how long it might take him to reach that pompous creature before her, determines the angle and force necessary for utilizing the pair of embroidery scissors in his pocket as he had with Stayne...

The lion replies, his tone marinated in disgust, "It disturbs me to learn this, Queen Mirana." He sends a single, searing, golden glare in Leif's direction. "I'm afraid this changes things. Shuchland will not be able to assist you with your challenge against Causwick Callion after all."

"Sir Avendon..."

The dignitary does not linger. Turning on his heel, he marches back into the castle, no doubt to collect his retainers and begin the long journey home. Tarrant watches as Mirana forces a sympathetic smile and turns toward the horse.

"Chief Minister Mogrimon..."

The creature sighs and shakes his mane. "I'm also sorry it has come to this, Your Majesty. As I mentioned earlier, Galandonland is only prepared to play a supportive role and then only in the event that you have guaranteed the assistance of Shuchland. I regret that Lord Hornsaver's army will decline to stand beside your own on the battlefield."

Looking truly anxious now, Mirana asks on a whisper of sound, "But, if things were to change and Shuchland chose to join us...?"

The horse tilts his large head to the side. "We will reconsider your proposal, of course."

"Of course," Mirana manages. Tarrant feels a moment of heart-freezing panic at the defeat in the queen's expression. "You are welcome to stay the night, if you'd like..."

"Unfortunately, I will be following Sir Avendon's example, Your Majesty. Were word to reach Shuchland that I had lingered here in spite of the... political difficulties..."

"I understand. Of course. Allow me to assist you in your preparations to leave, in that case," Mirana manages on a wavering breath.

Tarrant watches the queen and the Galandonland diplomat retreat into the shadows of the castle. Alice, however, lingers.

"Champion Alice, I am so sorry... I had no idea Avendon would see me here," Leif begins, his paws curled into great, hairy fists. "I've lost you the support of Shuchland _and_ Galandonland! I—"

Alice takes one step further out onto the terrace and tells him quietly, "You are precisely where I asked you to be, at precisely the time I asked you to be here. The fault for this is entirely mine."

"Alice," Tarrant says, staring at her, his gaze moving over her, his mind cataloging all of the oddities about her: despite her bowed head, she does not _look _defeated; despite the quite tone, she does not _seem _disappointed; despite the events that have taken place, she does not even _appear _to be surprised by this latest turn of events.

He turns his chin slightly away from her, his eyes narrowing, as a suspicion occurs to him. However, he knows he must not speak it! For, if Alice wishes it to be spoken of, she will inform them of it... but she says nothing.

"Alice," he says again now that her attention is focused on him. "The White Queen has issued a Champions' Duel?"

"Yes," she replies. Still standing against the stone sculpture, Leif stiffens. "She dispatched the message just after I returned. If it is accepted, we will be facing Prince Jaspien at the battlefield within three days."

_Three days!_

"No," Tarrant commands automatically, his suspicions momentarily forgotten, his vow to trust her disregarded. "You _cannot _fight! The poison... the promise... the—"

"I'm the Queen's Champion," she reminds him. "I've already renewed my vows." Her expression softens. "And I'm fine. Truly."

Knowing this is not the time, the place, or – most especially – the company in which to speak of all the reasons Alice should _not _duel in three days' time, Tarrant is frozen in place. Only his hands move, his right twitching and his left opening and then recurling into a fist at erratic intervals.

Alice regards both of them for a moment and then announces, "I _will _fight Jaspien's new Champion, whichever mercenary he manages to convince to do it. And, I would _like _it if I could count on both of you to stand with me." Then, she pointedly glances between them, measuring the wide distance they've put between themselves. "_If _you can bear to stand side-by-side for the sake of a greater good, that is."

The very thought of voluntarily and peaceably standing in close proximity to that... that... _that_ makes Tarrant's stomach heave.

"And if we can't?" he hears himself ask, his tone dropping and darkening with just the smallest hint of brogue.

Alice replies evenly, "Then you won't be going _anywhere _in three days' time. Either of you."

Leif gapes. "You can't just _leave _us here like a couple of old widows to their knitting!"

Pulling her lips back into a very frightening smile, Alice informs that blasted lion, "I am the Queen's Champion. I assure you, I _can _and if necessary I _will_ make sure you're left here with your knitting on the day of the duel."

Tarrant knows better than to argue. Luckily, Leif doesn't. He opens his great mouth but Alice cuts him off. "One more word of protest from you and I'll restrict this offer to Tarrant _only_."

Tarrant certainly wouldn't mind! But, well, _of course_ he'd still mind the bit about Alice fighting in a duel when her health is still precarious and her mind still broken and the trauma of the last week still so fresh...

"Alice," he whispers, breaking the staring contest between his wife and the creature who covets her. "What can I do? Tell me what you need."

She turns toward him again and the anger leaves her expression. He studies her lovingly – the softness of her eyes, the gentle smile curving her lips, the disappearance of the scowl lines from her brow... Yes, _yes, this_ is how he will win her back! He will be the man she needs! After all, he'll do anything, go anywhere, become anyone for Alice...

"If you wouldn't mind," she tells him and then glances at his right hand, "and if you think you can manage it, I'd like to meet you on the croquet pitch tomorrow after lunch."

His eyes flash at the request. He doesn't want to fight her, but...

_Alice needs to prepare for battle, lad. Will you let that great, frumious beast do the honors?_

No, no, of course he won't.

Tarrant nods once, accepting the invitation.

"Bring your broadsword, please," Alice adds.

"I... would also like to offer my services, Champion Alice, if you have need of them," Leif interrupts.

Tarrant feels his face twist into a mute snarl when the animal's offer takes Alice's attention away from him.

"Yes, thank you, Leif. I'll expect you on the croquet pitch tomorrow morning. We'll use the scimitar."

Leif nods.

"Thank you." She looks from the lion to Tarrant. "_Both _of you."

The next moment follows silently but Alice doesn't turn around and leave. Tarrant resists glancing at the Shuchlander and struggles for something to say. True, he does _not _want to have a private discussion _here _with _him _watching, but if he _says nothing __**what will Alice think of him?**_

Tarrant clears his throat and speaks in a rush, before Leif can beat him to it: "I'm so _very_ glad you're back, Alice. Chessur wouldn't tell anyone where you were, but he said you were... safe..."

"I was," Alice answers quietly. "I was perfectly fine. Absolem, in his infinite, annoyingly smug wisdom, knew exactly where I needed to be last night."

Swallowing around the rock that had magically grown – well, _of course_ it had grown magically! How else would a rock come to be in such an odd place? – in his throat, Tarrant nods and attempts a smile.

_Why did you leave Mamoreal?_ he wants to ask. _What can I do to make all these mistakes right? Will you come home with me? Will you hold onto me, Alice? Forgive me? Choose me?_

"Raven," he says.

Alice's expression softens. He holds his breath...

And then...

"Alice! _There _you are!"

Tarrant startles as a large, gray cat materializes beside Alice's shoulder. Tarrant's eyes narrow but he somehow manages to swallow the poisonous hiss rising up – _burning, acidic_ – in his throat: _Chessur...!_

"Did everything go all right?" Alice asks him quietly.

"Of course. How can you doubt my powers of persuasion?"

She gives him a wry smile. "Despite the inconvenience it must have been, I'm sure. So, there were no objections to...?"

"None whatsoever."

She sighs, relieved. "Thank you."

Chessur grins. "The night's still young and, if I'm not mistaken, you're still in need of me...?"

Alice nods, her face tightening with determination. "Meet me—"

"In the usual place," Chessur drawls. "Although I won't wait long so you'd best finish up here."

As Chessur evaporates, Leif is quick to ask, "Champion Alice? What is going on? What are you up to?"

"My job," she replies evenly. And then a very interesting smirk forms on her lips. Glancing between Leif and Tarrant, she says haltingly, as if consulting a distant memory, "Now, come, come. It's time to forgive and forget... or forget and forgive, whichever comes first or is most convenient."

Tarrant twitches as the words tug at his memory... the tea party on Gribling, when Alice had arrived and had awakened not only Tarrant, but the fire within him. Why, he'd never felt so giddy in all his life! Oh, how he'd rambled on and on and _on and on and..._ Why, it had been a miracle she'd consented to riding on his hat!

"Yes, yes," he lisps in answer, "We must commence with the slaying and such!"

Alice chuckles and, turning, bids them good night. Tarrant – and, out of the corner of his eye, he notices Leif as well – watches Alice as she trots down the terrace steps and makes her way across the croquet field and then disappears into the ever-blossoming cherry orchard.

Once she is out of sight, Leif stirs, reminding Tarrant of his unwanted companion. He slides a vicious glare in the cat's direction.

"For Alice's sake," the creature rumbles. "I'm willing to forget... for now."

Grinning too widely, Tarrant replies, "Aye, beast. Ye go on an'do tha' – we'll be continuin' our _discussion_ jus'as soon as tha' trio o'lickspittle guddlers' scut ha'been taken care of."

The lion nods once and then heads back inside the castle. Tarrant watches him go and then returns to the view from the terrace. He studies the forest and listens, but despite the hours he waits, there is no sign of Alice nor of what she's doing with Chessur somewhere out there on the grounds.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 12: Scene 2 of 3]


	67. Book 2, The Champion Returns, 3 of 3

**__****Chapter Twelve: The Champion Returns**** [Scene 3 of 3]**

"Your Majesty?"

Mirana turns away from the view of the moonlit grounds and smiles. "Alice, _Champion _Alice! What do I have to do to get you to call me 'Mirana' once and for all?"

"Hmm..." Alice appears to give the inquiry serious consideration. "How about both of us get kidnapped and held hostage in a foreign land by greedy megalomaniacs?"

Mirana feels an incredulous smile pull at her lips.

"Oh, wait..." Alice muses. "We've already done that, haven't we, Mirana?"

The queen laughs, delighted. "Yes, I do believe we have, Alice."

Alice gently bumps the queen's shoulder and laughs softly. Nodding to the spyglass mounted on the balcony, Alice says jokingly, "You weren't using that thing to keep an eye on me, were you?"

"Darling," Mirana sighs, "when a broadsword-wielding mad woman wanders off with a morally questionable cat with evaporating skills, it's _always _prudent to keep an eye on things!"

Alice laughs. "I can always depend on you, Mirana."

"I'm glad to hear it, Alice."

After a moment of companionable silence, Alice muses, "What shall we attempt for our next adventure, you think?"

"Something _more _adventurous than a perfectly, wonderfully, utterly _mad_ plan to remove said megalomaniacs from power for good?"

"Oh, yes. Somehow that had slipped my mind."

Mirana waggles a finger at her. "Ah-ah-ah! No forgetting your own plan, Alice. It's not. Allowed."

"I'm sorry? I came up with a plan of some sort?"

This time Mirana bumps Alice's shoulder. "What a perfectly disturbing sense of humor you have, dear. It's enough to give a queen a stress-injury."

"Whoops. My apologies."

Again, they allow the quiet of the _very, very _late evening to settle between them.

"I trust Chessur was... accommodating?" the queen ventures after a moment.

Alice smiles. "Yes. Very."

"So, should a man speak Outlandish or a beast let loose a laugh on the battlefield...?"

"I'll be fine."

The queen is very glad to hear it. And even more glad to have a resource like Chessur on their side. Truly, a shape-shifting cat is a very _useful _fellow to have on hand!

"How did it happen?" Alice asks, suddenly. "When did the Oraculum change?"

Mirana feels immeasurable gratitude for that evidence of Alice's depthless trust in Mirana's abilities and good sense. Not: _Why weren't you keeping an eye on things? _But: _When did things change?_ "I asked Absolem when I returned. He indicated it was sometime during the fifteenth day. I expect, by the time he learned of it, it was too late to act to prevent it from happening."

Alice nods. "Do you think it was your betrothal that...?"

"I've considered it," Mirana replies, her hand moving the leather thong around her neck. She will be eternally grateful that Fenruffle had insisted on returning to the inn to _personally _search the place from top to bottom in order to locate Dale's first claw. Perhaps she'll knight him for his efforts on her behalf...

"However," the queen continues, "when a monarch deigns to leave her lands to visit a suitor, a betrothal is not... an unexpected occurrence."

"So, something unexpected must have caused it..." Alice speculates. After a moment, her eyes narrow and she asks, "How long would it take word of my heart line to reach the other lands?"

Mirana blinks, startled. "Well, I..."

"We're expecting word of both Shuchland and Galandonland's withdrawal of aid to reach Jaspien by dawn, yes?" she continues.

"Alice, whatever is going on inside that Uplandian head of yours?" Despite asking, Mirana is not sure she wants to know.

"I think Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer have been planning to take over all of Underland for a long time. I think they participated in the Wooing Rites to discover who you might choose and to see just how good your Champion was... I don't know what their original plan may have been, but learning of my heart line would have been too good of an opportunity to let pass."

Alice coughs out a humorless chuckle. "It's not as if they could pay anyone enough to stand against both the White Queen's Champion and King Aven's. Mercenaries fight for money, true, but it takes a special kind of madness to someone for be a Champion, pick up a sword, fight an _honorable _battle to the death in the name of someone else, for the _sake _of someone else. Mercenaries don't mind fighting, but dying... that's something else all together."

Alice shakes her head. "And there I was, outside the protection of Mamoreal, a Champion with a heart line..." Alice's brows lift in droll counterpoint to her musings.

Mirana sighs. "I'm sorry. I don't understand, Alice..." Logic makes her head spin especially when she's enjoying a view from a sixth story balcony!

"Oshtyer and the others didn't look very surprised to see that I had one. And... I think they might have considered threatening Tarrant, that is, _if_ they could torture his identity out of me and manage to kidnap him. If that had happened, I would have done anything they asked. Or perhaps the ruse would have been much simpler: maybe they would have tried to hurt him through _me._" Alice considers her heart line. "In all honesty, I know so very little about this. Still."

Mirana lays a hand on Alice's arm. "_No one_ can hurt Tarrant physically through you... not in the way you're thinking. But he would have felt every emotion that passed through your heart. Unless you'd thought to shield him from it."

"I'm sorry?"

Mirana smiles. "I shall have to fetch my resource on Underlandian rites for you to read more thoroughly. Suffice it to say that you and Tarrant can communicate your feelings to each other."

"Unintentionally?" Alice wonders after a long moment.

"Well, yes, I imagine so. If you were panicked or suddenly overjoyed or felt something equally overwhelming." Mirana considers Alice's expression. "Why do you ask?"

Her gaze continues to examine the heart line on her hand – which she turns this way and that in the moonlight. Alice reluctantly says, "Nearly every day we were gone, the same inexplicable panic gripped me, waking me in the morning. I couldn't understand it. I didn't have single bad dream the entire time we were gone, but... it _felt _as if I had."

Mirana sighs and nods. "I wouldn't be surprised if Tarrant holds the answer to that riddle."

Alice nods. "I shall have to ask him... after all this is over."

"Why the delay?" Mirana considers the coming duel. "If something were to happen to you, or him, wouldn't it be better to be with him now?"

Alice closes her eyes. Her voice is husky when she says, "If I go down there now – go down to him – there'll be _no way _I'll be able to prepare for the duel." Alice sighs. "And then there's the fact that if I go to him without giving both of us time to really think about what's happened, it's always going to be there. This question hanging in the air over us."

"If it wouldn't be too personal to ask, what question is that, Alice?"

Alice glances at Mirana. "Trust. It's a question of trust. Can I trust him not to let me hurt him? Can he trust himself not to let me hurt myself with another promise?"

"Alice, you don't seriously believe that one little promise could make you do the things you did?"

"No, I don't."

Mirana is relieved to hear complete certainty in Alice's tone.

"But Tarrant believes it."

"Oh, botheration."

"Exactly."

"I see what you mean about waiting."

"Yes, neither of us will be able to concentrate if I... if we..." Alice sighs. "I never thought having _too much _to say would be such a confounding conundrum."

Mirana lays an arm across Alice's shoulders. "It's always the unexpected troubles that are the most overwhelming."

When Alice doesn't say anything for a moment, Mirana says, "I'm so sorry, Alice."

"About what?"

The queen smiles sadly; it's truly unbelievable how innocently surprised Alice is by her apology. "If it was... that is, if revealing you heart line truly caused Jaspien to act..."

"Mirana..."

"No, no, let me say this." She draws a deep breath. "I should have listened to you, Alice. I'm so very sorry I insisted on us both wearing those silly dresses."

"Stop, Mirana. Stop."

Alice gathers the queen's hands in her own and meets her uncertain gaze. "Look at us. Where are we? In Mamoreal. And we're both well and _alive._ If I hadn't revealed my heart line at the banquet, who knows what might have happened. Both Tarrant and I might have been captured at some other time. You might have had to elect a Champion to fight against _me._ I might have been killed; Tarrant might have been tortured; _you_ might have been killed and Mamoreal might be in the hands of—"

"I see your point."

Alice huffs. "Interrupting, again."

"A queen's prerogative, dearest Alice."

They share a smile on the balcony, watch the clouds float across the moon, absorb teaspoon after teaspoon of moonlight through their skin...

On the balcony, two figures lean against each other's shoulders against the backdrop of a midnight sky: a queen and her Champion.

Two women.

Two friends.

Two indomitable hearts.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 12]


	68. Book 2, The Ultimatum, 1 of 2

**__****Chapter Thirteen: The Ultimatum**** [Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]**

He knows.

Tarrant stands beside the queen on the terrace overlooking the croquet pitch. His eyes – very rarely blinking – stay focused on the two figures below. When Alice stumbles, he deliberately curls his hands – now both free and splint-less! – into fists against the stone railing. When she exclaims in frustration, he narrows his eyes. When she drops her arm too early, her body shaking with fatigue and her breaths panting, Tarrant mutters in Outlandish.

Beside him, the queen watches the duel with unusual intensity. It is her presence here, actually, that had convinced him of it; he'd suspected last night, but now he knows it's true: Alice has a Plan.

And, apparently, the queen must also participate in it, for certainly, she would not be _here_ otherwise. The White Queen has never shown any interest in the daily requirements of Alice's training and duties, but now she shows that and so much more.

The queen looks... _Concerned._

On the field, Alice once again stumbles under Leif's advance. She cries out when she falls back, but manages to keep the scimitar up. Barely.

The muscles along his jaw tense. His lips form the shape of her name and his breath hisses between his teeth.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the queen turn in his direction.

"Halt, Alice," Leif commands in a clear tone.

"No," she argues. Tarrant hides a smile; the title _the Queen's Champion_ is a euphemism for _stubborn_. "I can _do _this."

"No, you can't."

"I _can._"

"Well, you're _not_," he growls. "I'm... frankly... _mystified _as to how you think you're actually going to be fit enough to face whatever creature Jaspien elects to Champion the day after tomorrow."

Even from this distance, Tarrant knows Alice's determined scowl when he sees it. "With practice. _Again._"

Tarrant tenses all over as they resume the fight, circling each other on the pitch.

"Tarrant..." the queen breathes out, her tone weighted with compassion.

Luckily, at that moment, Alice attempts a very ill-timed attack. "_Don't!_" he snaps, his eyes touching upon the queen's for the merest of moments.

"Let Alice do what she must," he murmurs just loud enough for the breeze to carry to the queen's ears and no further. "Our Champion appears to be a bit rusty," he continues in a louder, more jovial tone. "Do not worry, Your Majesty. I shall do my part to assist her in her preparations for the coming battle."

"I... thank you, Tarrant," she replies carefully. Her dark eyes narrow slightly with speculation, but Tarrant doesn't dare give her any further indication of his thoughts. This is not the time for reassurance. Not if Alice's Plan is to work. And how does Tarrant know this? The queen's silence tells him. She does not attempt to reassure him, not with a gesture or a smile or a word. Nor does she attempt to make things right with a decree or a suggestion or a solution.

This is the time for caution and deception and roles. Alice and the queen have not said as much, not in so many words, but they've spoken to him in other ways:

Alice's horridly-timed arrangements the evening before.

Her obviously sub-standard performance during today's morning training practice.

The queen's newfound obsession with Alice's abilities.

And the silence. The utter and complete avoidance of explanations.

Yes, there is a Plan. Tarrant can _feel _it.

_And if ye're merely deluding yerself tha'there is one, lad?_

Well, if that's the case... then pretending otherwise might actually be beneficial. Despite his outward calm, Tarrant knows he's but one more tragedy away from crumbling. He forces himself to ignore the history of pain between himself and his wife...

_Yer __**lover**_**, **_ye mean. Never did get 'round teh asking f'r Alice's hand, did ye?_

This time, when Tarrant fists his hands and tenses his jaw, the actions are _not _forced.

Yes, yes, he knows he's failed her. He should have asked her...

He should have accepted a promise that would have made her _better, safer, happier!_

_Ye slurvish, undeserving, slithy-shrifty greizin'-grommer! Ye're no better than th'those booly-gebers after the queen, more'n happy teh lift a sword agains'th'Champion if it means getting'wha'ye want!_

"Tarrant!"

At the sound of Mirana's urgent whisper, he shakes himself, blinks, glances at her and summons up a tight smile. "I'm fine."

"It'll be over soon," she tries to comfort him, her gaze returning to the field. "It's nearly time for lunch."

He relaxes. Yes, yes, he just has to focus on that goal: the end of this deception, the ultimate safety of Mamoreal and Alice herself. And then...

_And then...!_

The sound of metal clashing from below draws his gaze. He takes a moment to evaluate Alice and when she seems... well, not _fine _but _barely _competent, he feels his expression draw into a scowl as he considers his rival for Alice's affections.

Tarrant knows she's fond of the creature. And the son a flea-bitten, squimberry-sucking feline has the added advantage of not having hurt Alice as... _thoroughly _as Tarrant has.

_I never meant to hurt her..._

The very thought of having done so pains him. He clenches his left fist tighter to keep a grip on the emotion, to keep Alice from suffering from it through the heart line.

_Ye never mean'teh, but ye did'urt her. Badly._

Yes, yes, he had.

_She won'trust ye after that._

She might.

_She won'choose ye._

He could still ask.

_Ye're a fool, lad._

Yes, he's quite certain he is. Always has been. Always will be. But just for Alice. Only for Alice.

On the field, Alice and the lion lower their scimitars.

"You're going to get yourself killed, _Champion_ Alice," the lion growls at her before stalking into the castle. Tarrant watches Alice clean the handle of her Shuchish sword with a rag, her head bowed, and _aches _to go to her. But he knows he can't. That is not his role now. His role is to help her, and to do that best, he must not be near her any more frequently than she allows, for if he were to let loose everything he feels, needs to say, must confess, cannot help but plead for...

No. No, Alice is working now and he _must __**not **__interfere!_

Tarrant eats lunch in the kitchen with Thackery banging around on the stove behind him, but he might as well be alone. He wonders if Alice is as well, if she's enjoying the over-salted stew the March Hare had prepared. He wonders if she can barely bring herself to notice the taste of it. He wonders if that might be because she's too busy thinking about him, too.

"Ge'out o'my kitchen, Hatter, ye lovesick fool!" Thackery announces, tossing a soggy paw-full of potato peelings at him.

Tarrant twitches out of the way in time and heads upstairs. He tries not to notice the rooms he enters. He merely fetches the broadsword and leaves. He tells himself he hadn't noticed the too tidy chair where Alice hasn't thrown her night shirt and pajama trousers. He reminds himself that it's normal for her boots to not be by the door. He consoles himself that her hair brush and pot of healing ointment have been tucked away in the drawer and not _taken _away.

No, _no one _is going to take away _his Alice __**again.**_

And when he finds himself on the croquet field rather than above it, when he finds himself facing off against his Alice rather than watching over her, when he has to swallow back the words that would remind her that he has left his heart in her keeping – _Alice, why is a raven like a writing desk?_ – when he lifts his sword against her and uses all of his strength to drive her back, to push her, to test her, when his heart breaks with every manufactured moment of this staged duel, when his greatest desire is to throw away their weapons and feel her hold onto him as he begs her forgiveness, Tarrant Hightopp merely smiles.

He does not trust himself to dare more than that without bringing everything crashing down around them. And he would rather suffer the madness, locked in the depths of the dungeons of Crims for every moment remaining in his existence, than hurt Alice again, risk her Plan, lose what is left of her trust.

_Alice, I trust you,_ he says with his silence.

_Alice, come back to me, _he begs with every arcing thrust of the broadsword.

_Alice, choose __**us**__, _he pleads with every step he takes away from the croquet pitch, away from her.

With all that he does not – **cannot!** – say, he wonders if there's any chance that she hears him nonetheless.

* * *

It's confirmed: Alice hates secrets. Even when they're her own.

If the day she'd returned from Iplam had been difficult, the one following it had been torturous. Leif had scoffed at her, growled at her sudden lack of skill. She had wondered at his disgust – has she perhaps succeeded too well in this deception?

_Where has my friend gone?_ she wonders but forbids herself to speak the truth or to show it in her expression.

And, even worse, she'd faced the Hatter's silent protest, his resignation despite his cooperation. And yet... there had been something about him. Something...

_His eyes!_ she'd realized as he'd sheathed his broadsword and bid her a good day following their training exercise.

"Please feel free to call upon me if you should need further assistance, Champion," he'd mumbled, lisped. And then he'd glanced at her and his eyes had flickered from grass-green to rich aqua.

And, at that moment, she'd realized how very much she's underestimated him.

_He knows._

But of course he does! This is the man who had sacrificed himself to capture in order to draw the Red Knights away from her. This is the man who, upon seeing her – absurdly oversized – in the throne room at Salazen Grum, had hatched a scheme to make himself more available to her, in order to assist her, to further the Resistance. This is the man who had choked back his own madness in order to make hats for his sworn enemy so that he wouldn't be tossed back into the dungeon where he would be useless to Alice. This is the man who had, shackled and with little more than a powder puff and a bottle of perfume, fought Stayne when he'd come to arrest Alice for that ridiculous allegation of unlawful seduction! This is the man who had stepped forward and stabbed the Jabberwocky's tail to give her a few extra seconds during battle to gather herself and the Vorpal Sword.

"I'm an idiot," she murmurs to herself, closing the door to her old bedroom and leaning back against it. _Of course_, Tarrant would figure it out, see past her pretenses. She has never met anyone who sees _further, more clearly, truly_ than him, mad though he is at times. But then, it's that madness that has always made him so very special to her. And, she believes, special in his own right.

Fate, how she _misses _him!

_Soon... _she tells herself. _Soon._

Soon, the moment of battle will be upon them and, in that moment, Alice will no longer have to act the part of the broken, stubborn, unreasonable and utterly defeatable Queen's Champion. _Just a little longer,_ she thinks. _Word travels fast in Underland. Surely, by now, Jaspien and the others have heard about my incompetence, have assumed I haven't recovered from my collapse, are feeling smug and overconfident about the Challenge..._

And with everything to gain and nothing to lose, with an easy victory practically guaranteed, there should be nothing preventing one of the mercenaries from standing as Jaspien's Champion.

Yes, soon – and gossipmongers enabling – the White Realm will be safe once and for all. But, in the meantime...

Alice sighs and reaffirms her decision to follow through with her plans. The plans Tarrant also seems to know something about...

Somehow, the next day is worse now that she knows he knows, for she cannot trust herself to smile or wink or even reach for his hand without cracking entirely. If she removes the mask, everything else will be exposed as well.

_I miss you._

_I want you._

_Let me come home..._

She endures Leif's disapproval. And then, later that afternoon, she _suffers _through Tarrant's barely-hidden acceptance, pride, and gently glowing support. The only comfort she can give herself is that no one but her is close enough to him to be able to see these things as easily as she can.

"With your permission, Champion?" he lisps, lowering his sword after an utterly unproductive hour spent on the field.

Alice nods, sheathing her own. "I suppose I'm only marginally more proficient at this than the queen's writing desk would be," she muses, her heart thumping painfully. _You shouldn't have said that, Alice! It's too soon! One of you will do something or say something foolish and give the secret away! Someone could be watching, listening, sending word to Jaspien! _Yes, the prince of Causwick Callion must _not _be made aware of the true nature of this game: of Alice's intentions and abilities, of the queen's resources, of the—

"I haven't the slightest idea why you'd say such a thing, Champion," Tarrant replies, scowling at her but regarding her with eyes that have deepened in color past aqua to indigo. "Of course, you mustn't forget your muchness on the morrow."

"I won't," she replies, strangling all emotion from her tone. Still, she feels oddly... accomplished – satisfied, content! – at having finally been able to answer Tarrant's "_Raven..." _from two nights ago.

His gaze lingers on her for a moment. Were there no spies to fear or gossips to be wary of, Alice would have kissed him. That is, if he wouldn't have given in to the impulse first. The fact that the desire is there, vibrating in the air between them and yet he doesn't so much as twitch his fingers toward her, reminds her of the task she has set out to do.

"I don't doubt you will, Champion," he lisps in response to her vow. And with an odd salute-like nod, he turns and heads back into the castle. Alice forces herself not to watch him go. She turns toward the trees and places a hand on the nearest one.

"I'm so tired of this," she tells it in a whisper. And then she wonders if anyone might have heard that confession... and if the words are even now on their way to Causwick Callion.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 13: Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]


	69. Book 2, The Ultimatum, 2 of 2

**__****Chapter Thirteen: The Ultimatum**** [Scenes 3 & 4 of 4]**

"Spies are everywhere," Mirana had disclosed. "We must assume so, even if it is not true. Caution is of utmost and paramount importance at this point."

"In that case," Alice had replied, Uplandian logic flickering in the depths of her eyes and making her look rather... devious. "I have a suggestion for somewhere... isolated we might speak." And with that, Alice had opened the vanity mirror to a very odd, stuffy-looking room.

"Alice... are you sure?"

"It's just gone lunch, it looks like," the Champion had estimated with a measuring glance at the sunlit windows through the glass. "And no one has used this room since my father died. We won't be bothered." And then Chessur had watched as Alice, Sir Avendon, Chief Minister Mogrimon, and the queen had sipped Pishsalver and had stepped through the looking glass. Chessur had been unable to hear the discussion, but he had watched, had stayed behind to keep the looking glass open. He'd waited – bit impatiently, he must admit – until the queen and the dignitaries had returned and indulged in a corner of Upelkuchen.

"Alice would like to speak with you now, Chessur," she'd informed him.

He'd practically purred with self-importance. Chessur had swum through the mirror and drawled, "And just why would _the _Alice wish to see me on _this _side of the looking glass?"

Alice had smiled and told him her plan. Her fantastically, breathtakingly, wonderfully _mad _plan.

_Tarrant is going to be very sorry he'd missed this,_ Chessur had mused as he'd followed Alice back to Underland and then set off on his own mission. A mission that has contributed in a small but necessary way to bring them all _here_ and _now_: to this battlefield.

The late morning sun peeks out from behind a wispy cloud as Chessur takes in the lines of menacing, scarred, battle-hardened mercenaries standing with Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer. He waits for the moment of unease he usually feels in such... political situations, but it doesn't come.

Yes, Alice's plan is _that _good.

Chessur turns and grins at Alice. "Well, here we are, Champion Alice."

"Yes," she agrees, grinning back in relief. "I think we managed it, Chess."

"Oh, I _know _we have. And now..." He smirks at the two men standing on either side of and a pace behind the Queen's Champion. "_Now _the question is are you going to ruin the surprise for everyone... or not?"

Tarrant grins at him, his eyes flashing a deep, confident green. "The only surprise, Chess, is that _you _never guessed I already _knew_ there was supposed to be one!"

Chessur looks down his nose at the man. "I'm sure you _think _you do, however..."

"What don't we know?" the Shuchlander interrupts.

Chessur enjoys the sly look Alice gives the lion over her shoulder. Yes, he enjoys that look _very _much. Then she turns back to Chessur, arcs a brow and announces, "That Chessur has someplace and some_thing_ he needs to be at the moment."

He sighs at the reminder; the mission he'd performed at Alice's request will be for naught if he doesn't get to it. "Right you are, Alice," he admits and disappears. It's a shame he'll miss hearing the lion's protests and the image of a puffed up Tarrant would have been rather amusing, but Alice is correct: Chessur has a battle – and a bit of bullying – to prepare for.

* * *

Alice has been waiting for this moment since the day the queen's suitors had first stepped inside Mamoreal Castle.

She's a little startled to realize this, for how could she have known _then _that she'd desire vengeance so passionately _now?_ At the time, she hadn't even realized the vague discomfort she'd felt at seeing these men pass through the castle gates would grow and twist into such utter disgust. She _despises_ them.

How _dare_ they even _think_ of approaching, laying eyes on, or threatening _her queen!_

"Alice?"

Tarrant's soft whisper calls her back from the edge of her mounting fury. She blinks, huffs out a breath of laughter, and says, "Thank you. I'm fine."

On the two-tone, cracked and shifted square stones, Nivens does the honors of announcing the particulars of the conflict. Again. Mirana tries to convince Jaspien to forfeit. She appeals to his vanity, his pride, but without a heart, there's no way she can succeed, so Alice isn't surprised when he turns on his heel and marches back to his army, leaving the queen's plea unanswered.

It's to be a fight, then. Which is just as well. All this planning and preparation would have been for naught otherwise. Mirana and Alice share a long look as the queen returns to this edge of the field. With a slight nod, Alice acknowledges the permission she's been given.

It's her turn now.

When the queen is once again standing surrounded by the White Guard, Alice shifts her weight and directs her voice to the Outlander and the lion.

"Step out with me."

Leif looks at her. "What? It's not permitted for anyone other than the Champion  
to—"

"You won't be fighting anyone," Alice tells him confidently. "But you'll give them pause while I make a proposition."

"A what?"

"A proposition," she repeats. "How else should one deal with an army of creatures who specialize in enlightened self-interest? Do you honestly think they _want_ to fight us? To risk dying?"

"And you believe they don't?"

"I _know _they don't. I know _them_." Alice glances out across the battlefield. Jaspien's Champion has yet to step forward. He's waiting for Alice to make the first move. She says, "I know what they _really_ want. Even if they don't know it themselves... yet."

Tarrant giggles and Alice turns and gives him a beatific smile.

"Had you figured that part out yet?" she asks.

He shakes his head. "Alice, you will never cease to utterly overwhelm me." His broad grin gentles. "Why _is_ a raven—"

"—like a writing desk?" she finishes. "I haven't—"

"—the slightest idea," he murmurs with a luminous smile.

Alice smiles back. "Come on, then. Let's get this over and done with." And then she strides out toward the center of the worn and weathered clearing. She can hear Tarrant on her left, her weaker side, and Leif on the other. Across the way, an Outlander Alice instantly recognizes steps forward flanked by a hyena and a bear. They cut quite the imposing figures as they stride, lope, and lumber toward her.

"Ah, Lassling! Does be-giddy me'eart teh clamp eyes on ye again!" the Outlander announces.

"Davon. You're looking well," Alice replies, her left hand on her scimitar.

"Och! An'ye be rememb'rin' me name!" The brash man wags a finger at her. "Ye tol'me ye'd done f'rgotten it alr'dy!"

Alice sighs. "I tried." She shrugs.

Davon laughs. "Ye _lied_, ye canny lass! Ye even'ad us all thinkin' ye'ad somma' agains'Outlanders."

"What makes you think I don't?" she counters.

He replies in a mocking whisper, "M'be ye hav'nae noticed, but that lad there–" He nods in Tarrant's direction. "–he's an Outlander sure's I am me-self."

"Truly? I never realized."

Davon laughs again. "Ar, ye're still a deligh'Alice!" He sobers suddenly. "'Tis too bad I'll hav'teh be killin' ye."

And with that, he draws his sword, swinging it upward in a motion meant to cleave her from thigh to chin. But Alice knows this man. She's fought him... and she's _survived_ him. The scimitar is in her hands before she can even form the thought to draw it. She dodges the blade, strikes the underside of it as it arches upward, sends it flying across the battlefield, and then employs the sort of rotten, cheating, dirty, underhanded tricks Davon and his kind respect.

A kick to the knee, a knee to the groin, a fist to the kidney, and then using the grip on his wrist to twist him around and down to the ground, Alice finds herself leaning over the man. She has his arm in the sort of grip she'd used on Tarrant months ago when the madness had consumed him after he'd discovered that she'd gone through the looking glass without him. Davon kneels on the stone tiles with Alice's knee pressed against his back and her blade at his throat. She keeps him there, arm twisted up against his back and his weight precariously balanced upon his knees, his neck pressing just slightly against the sword's edge.

Before he forces her to kill him, she plays her cards.

"I, Alice Kingsleigh, Champion of the White Queen, do hereby offer _amnesty_ to all those willing to throw down their weapons and accept the gift of land and property within the lands of Queen Mirana!"

Her voice carries across the echoingly silent plain.

And then someone laughs.

Alice doesn't take her eyes off of Davon. "Is something funny, Argur? You're not tired of living day-to-day with naught but two or three iron coins clinking in your pocket?"

"Don't got any pockets, Lassling!" he counters between brays.

Alice smiles. "Of course! What would you need them for? Not for riches, certainly." Ignoring his helpless, hiccupping chuckles, she raises her voice, "_None _of you will ever see a single gold coin as long as you follow this path. _Why do you __**fight?**_"

Her challenge rings out like the pealing of a silver bell.

"_WHY DO YOU FIGHT IF NOT FOR SOMETHING BETTER THAN WHAT YOU HAVE NOW? WHICH IS __**WHAT?**_"

No one answers her, for she already knows their answer. She's seen it in the hard flash of humor in their resigned gaze; she's heard it in their hallow, shallow laughter; she's felt it in the hate and disgust they pour into every charge, every attack, every swipe of a blade or club or paw: nothing. These creatures have nothing. Nothing to lose and _now_ **_everything_** to gain!

"Those of you who fight for a better future for your families, for yourselves, I offer it to you _freely!_" Still, she doesn't dare take her eyes off of the Outlander on the ground before her. "And those of you who fight in hopes of meeting Death itself..." Her smile is dark and vicious. Even if they can't _see _it clearly at that distance, she knows they'll _hear _it. "... I'm more than willing to oblige you. Here. Today."

And with that, Alice whistles. From the depths of the woods surrounding the battlefield, the red and gold livery of Galandonland's Army steps forth, taking their place on the west flank of the White Army. To the east, the royal blue colors of Shuchland step forward. But that's not all. From within the queen's forces come two terrifying beasts: the frumious Bandersnatch and the nightmarish Jabberwocky.

"Keep your weapons and flee," Alice invites them. "Keep your weapons and die. _Or_ throw down your weapons and swear allegiance to the White Queen, vow to lift a weapon only in defense of your queen and family and your own life and we will welcome you into our lands, into _your _land, where _your _city is waiting to be built. You have my word – the word of Alice Kingsleigh of Mamoreal, the word of Alice Lassling! – that I speak the truth!"

Finally, she releases Davon. She removes the scimitar and – knowing she cannot afford to give ground _now _– gently shoves him away from her. She watches him warily, waiting to see if he'll draw one of his many, sharp-edged throwing stars.

Although she knows no one man or beast leads this rabble, she knows they all listen to this Outlander. Many times, he'd been the one to come between Alice and one bad-tempered beast or another. She doesn't trust him – no one trusts each other in this company of mismatched, money-loving monsters – but she knows he's the one she'll have to win over _first_.

She watches as he stands, his back to her. She trusts Tarrant and Leif to keep Argur and Boreal out of her way.

"What say you to my offer, Davon Irondirk?"

Slowly, he turns. She notes his hands are held in front of him, palms up. He smiles, revealing his crooked, chipped, stained teeth and tells her, "Aye, Lassling. I say _aye_ teh yer offer."

Alice nods, accepting his answer.

"A city, you say?" Argur muses in his off-note, screechy voice.

"Yes."

He tosses his battered short sword aside. Boreal follows suit. The sounds of weapons clattering against the stones is nearly deafening. Even the Jubjub bird, with its ghostly, ghastly eyes on the grinning Jabberwocky, stands down.

"_No!_" Valereth screams. "You've made a vow to _me!_ You will fight or face the consequences of breaking it!"

Davon shouts back, "_If _ye'll r'call, _Mister_ Valereth, we signed on teh work f'r a wage, _no'_teh die in a battle."

Alice grins and adds to Valereth, Oshtyer, and Jaspien's general misery with _relish:_ "Step forward Prince Jaspien, Viscount Valereth, and Lord Oshtyer to receive justice!"

"And if we don't?" Oshtyer sneers. "You'll have your new _pets _do your bidding?" Clearly, he's referring to the surrendered mercenaries.

Alice laughs. "Why would I impose upon them when I have _other _pets who are _already_ looking forward to sinking their teeth and claws into your hide, _my lord?_" She raises a hand and gestures the Bandersnatch and Jabberwocky closer. Their steps thunder against the stones, shaking the ground as they advance snarling. The disarmed mercenaries hastily move aside until it is only Jaspien, his cohorts, and their most loyal stewards who remain, alone and abandoned and on the rather unpleasant receiving end of the hungry and untamed attention of Alice's... _pets._

"What's it to be, gentlemen?" she asks. "Will you come forth? Or will you be dinner?"

The Jabberwocky lets loose a hungry rumbling growl that makes the hair on the back of Alice's neck stand on end, even though she knows she has nothing to fear from this twitching, dark-as-a-starless-night, starved-looking creature.

The Bandersnatch snarls and roars eagerly, licking his face in anticipation.

Alice keeps her arm up, keeps them in check, and waits for the men across the field to make their decision.

Oshtyer retreats one step... and then another... and then he turns and takes two frantic running steps toward the wood before he realizes he has nowhere to go. While he and his cohorts had been focused on Alice's speech and the sudden appearance of the White Queen's allies, the former army of the Red Queen had moved in behind them, cutting off their retreat.

Oshtyer, Valereth, and Jaspien stare at the spear-wielding line of red-armored fighters, and relent:

Jaspien, resigned and defeated, steps forward first. "I surrender," he announces, his face blank.

Valereth joins him but cannot bring himself to say the words.

Oshtyer reluctantly complies as well.

And then Alice steps back and allows the White Queen, King Aven, and Lord Hornsaver to pronounce their verdicts:

Jaspien is confined to his castle and marshlands for the remainder of his life.

Valereth's wealth and property are seized as compensation for his disloyalty to his king and his homeland. He is banished from Shuchland and all the realms of the Underland Allegiance.

Oshtyer's meager land holdings are re-taken by Galandonland and he joins the former viscount in exile.

The men are forced to remove their weapons and their shoes and then they are marched from the battlefield.

_It's over...!_

Alice smiles, takes a deep breath, and sighs. Now, all there is left to do is go home.

**

* * *

**

[End of Chapter 13]


	70. Book 2, Heart or Soul, 1 of 2

**__****Chapter Fourteen: Heart or Soul ****[Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]**

Preparing for the return journey takes longer than preparing for the march to the battlefield had. The White and Red Armies collect the discarded weapons, and the mercenaries – now loyal subjects of the White Queen – allow it with only a few longing glances and half-hearted growls.

"Your things will be returned to you upon completing a formal vow of fealty," Alice informs them, and after that, there are no more grumbles or snarls.

The soft puff of breath against her neck warns her an instant before Tarrant murmurs over her shoulder and in her ear, "You've quite a gift for handling the masses."

She bites back a smile.

"I've always known you were splendidly talented. But _this _is a wonderful surprise," he continues and Alice has to hide a shiver of lust at the heat of his breath and the tender possession in his tone.

"Champion Alice? I believe everyone is ready to return," Fenruffle announces, emerging from the lines of soldiers. Alice watches the queen bid farewell to Lord Hornsaver and accept his congratulations on her betrothal. Even King Aven speaks softly and warmly to her. Alice cannot hear his words, but she imagines, from the look in his eyes, that he is thanking Mirana for rescuing his son from the consequences of his actions.

Alice marvels at how... beautifully everything has worked out.

"Once again, wonderful use of that Uplandian mind of yours, dear Alice," Chessur whispers, still wearing the Jabberwocky's frightening form.

"And, once again, wonderful use of your shape-shifting abilities, Chessur," she replies quietly. "And your powers of persuasion. Not just _anyone _could have convinced the Jabberwocky to let them borrow its shape... again."

He preens. "Yes, I did do rather well with that, didn't I? Although, I imagine _someone _has a few questions about the entire affair..." His bright green cat eyes pass over Tarrant and Leif.

Tarrant giggles and then, shaking his head, sighs with contentment.

Leif glances at Alice and says slowly, "You planned for Avendon to see me there on the balcony."

"I did," she admits. "And he was prepared for seeing you there."

"So it was all planned? Shuchland and Galandonland withdrawing their aid...?"

Alice nods. "Yes. It was planned in secret and done in public so that, after word reached Jaspien about it, he would have no reason _not_ accept the challenge."

Tarrant claps his hands in glee. "Yes, yes, a _necessary _challenge it was! For how else were you going to petition the mercenaries to turn against them and force their surrender?"

"Exactly," Alice replies.

"Only... there is one thing I'm curious about," Tarrant continues, his expression reforming into one of serious contemplation and puzzlement. "_Which _lands and city were you speaking of?"

"The city you already know," she tells him. "It's been abandoned for years now."

"Ah... Salazen Grum. Yes, yes, they tore the castle down after the Battle of Frabjous Day."

"Yes, and there's a harbor that needs a wharf and a town and fishermen and shopkeepers and tradesmen to fill it up."

Tarrant smiles, nods, then wonders, "And the land?"

Alice nods in agreement with his implied observation; the lands surrounding Salazen Grum are certainly _not _ideal farmland, at least not for the produce that has always been grown in the White Realm. "Actually, during our trip in Shuchland, there were several local plants that seemed to grow quite well in a rocky, arid clime like the one at Salazen Grum. But, you're right, there are other places that need populating."

"And where might those be?" he wonders curiously.

Alice just smiles. "In Snud, in Queast, in Witzend... all over really." An idea occurs to her and she offers, "I'll take you to see my favorite one sometime soon."

Tarrant's smile is gleeful and Alice can't help but return it.

"I'm sorry, Champion Alice," Leif interrupts gently.

"For what?" Alice asks, puzzled. "You played your part extremely well, Leif. Thank you."

He shakes his head and sighs but says nothing further.

Despite the long day and the longer journey, the mood is festive. The newest citizens of the White Realm bicker and joke about their future occupations:

"Ha! If ye're try teh catch a fish wi'_tha'_ ugly face, ye'll scare even th'sea beasties away!"

"Aye, ye'd better stick teh carrot farmin'."

"Or potatoes."

"No'p'tatoes! Them'as _eyes_, ye ken? Won'b'able teh _beg _'em teh come up outeh th'ground!"

Laughter – both harsh and heartfelt – is heard periodically throughout the journey. Alice can feel the attentions of both Tarrant and Leif on her during those moments of spoken Outlandish and rough humor, but not once does she lose herself to the memories they had previously called forth.

The new citizens are settled in the town of Mamoreal for the night and the Queen declares that on the day after tomorrow, after the former mercenaries have accepted their vows of fealty, a grand, three-day celebration will be held. Alice listens with only half an ear and sighs, knowing she'll have to attend to guard the queen when she'd rather spend the rest of the week elsewhere...

She glances at Tarrant and finds his gaze already upon her. The look in his eyes makes her heart beat faster.

Yes, she'd rather spend the whole time behind closed doors. Isolated, but most definitely _not _alone. They _will_ have tonight, she knows, but after the long march and the adrenaline of the confrontation, Alice is beyond tired. No, tonight she expects she'll be doing naught but sleeping.

_Tomorrow morning, however..._ Yes, there's nothing to stop her from spending the night with Tarrant, waking up next to him in the morning, and _then_ showing him how very much she's missed him.

Unfortunately, it doesn't happen quite that way...

* * *

"Thank you, Hatter."

Tarrant returns the queen's appreciation with a tired smile. "You are most welcome, Your Majesty. It was my—"

"No," she interjects gently, "no it was most certainly _not _your pleasure, but I thank you for everything you've done for me, for Mamoreal, and for Alice."

Tarrant twitches a bit at the mention of his wife's name.

The queen gives him a knowing look and he glances away, shifting uncomfortably. That one glance tells him that Mirana already knows exactly why he'd participated in the deception Alice had orchestrated... and his main motivation had had very little to do with Mamoreal or its queen.

"I also thank you, Sir Hatter," a rumbling voice says.

Tarrant glances up, surprised at being addressed by none other than the queen's betrothed. He takes in the he-lion's new mane and kind expression and feels even less worthy of the attention. "If there's ever a way I can be of service again..." he lisps in a rush.

The queen once more interrupts him (very _bad _habit that!) and suggests, "But not for some time, Hatter. I believe you have other duties to attend to...?" Her dark eyes glance toward the castle drive where courtiers are milling about with the queen's generals, demanding every last detail from the day's confrontation. Tarrant spies Alice standing with Fenruffle, organizing the weapons that had been given up by the mercenaries. Fenruffle scribbles furiously, recording each item and its owner's name as Alice waves each pawn in through the normally-well-concealed castle side entrance and toward the armory on the second floor.

He barely notices when the queen and Dale move away, disappearing amongst the milling crowd, and Thackery joins him on the steps, clutching a wooden ladle.

"Mally says I missed all th'excitement!" the hare announces.

Tarrant feels a wry smile tug at his mouth. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm afraid our dear Mally has been exaggerating again. There was very little excitement and certainly no occasion for tying up toes with string," he replies.

"Well, _I _coulda tol'ye _that,_" Thackery sniffs. "Cannae use th'same trick twice 'r shame on _ye_ when it d'snae work!" He waves the wooden ladle in the air for emphasis. "_Soup..._"

"I'm afraid I'm not very hungry at the moment," Tarrant apologizes. "Will it keep until tomorrow?"

"Aye, 'twill, but don'be expectin' there teh be any Thrambleberries left!"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Again, Tarrant is left alone on the steps. He does his best to keep Alice in sight at all times, but every now and then his gaze drifts off to Dale's fellow exile. And every time he notices the blighter, he feels a scowl pull his pleasant, relieved smile relentlessly downward.

No, Tarrant has _not _forgotten the he-lion's vow to woo away Tarrant's Alice. He knows, despite the battle between the White Realm and the alliance of Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer being over, that he has yet another fight on his hands. Although he is calmer and more focused now than he had been just a few days ago and although Alice _seems_ receptive to his overtures of affection, he is very much aware of the fact that very little has been resolved between them and nothing at all has been said of their future.

"Hatter! What you doin' out here?"

Tarrant startles and realizes that he'd been neglecting his watch over Alice in favor of glaring at that... that...!

"Mally," he says, scanning the dispersing crowd for a woman in battle armor. "You've been sharing tales with Thackery again."

She harrumphs. "There's no need to be swappin' tails as mine suits me just fine, thank you very much!"

Tarrant continues scanning the remains of the assembled welcoming party: lingering soldiers and a smattering of courtiers but no be-armored Alice.

Mally pokes him in the ankle with her sword. When he hisses and looks down, she swishes it at him. "Lookin' for Alice, are you? Well, that'll teach you to spend all your time glaring at that other fellow!"

"Where is she?"

"And why should I tell you, you great, jealous lump?"

Tarrant closes his eyes, takes a deep, calming breath and, looking at her again, breathes, "_Please,_ Mally."

"Oh... all right. Went inside a while ago. Looked right knackered, she did, so don't you be going and bothering—Oi, _Hatter!_"

Tarrant marches into the castle and heads directly for her old room, where he knows she's been sleeping since her return to Mamoreal. He knocks softly on the door, but when – after a minute or so – there's no answer, he knocks _firmly_. And then, moments later, _pounds _on the door. He knows he oughtn't but he's unable to stop himself.

He's just opened his mouth to call her name when the doorknob across the hall informs him, "She's stepped out, young man. Maybe moved out. Again." The fixture sighs. "Never seen a lady so unable to make up her own mind about her sleeping arrangements!"

"Where did she go?"

"How should I know? I'm just a doorknob, for the love of brass polish!" The doorknob pauses, and then says consideringly, "Which is quite possibly one of the things I love best..."

Gritting his teeth and thinking uncharitable thoughts of vain and useless sentient brass door handles, Tarrant heads back down to the first floor. Perhaps she'd returned to the room they'd borrowed in order to bathe out the Hafflaffen from her system? But no, the latch on _that _door insists no one's been in or out since the room had been cleaned a few days ago. He tries the kitchen, the libraries, the armory and – with great hesitance – his own hat workshop. Still, no Alice. Reluctantly, he decides she must have gone up to the queen's tower parlor to sleep on the sofa there.

When there's nowhere left to search, he admits defeat and forces his exhausted, aching body up the steps and down the corridor to his room. Disappointment makes each step more difficult than he could have imagined.

He'd hoped... foolishly, yes, but he'd _hoped _that Alice might have spoken to him about coming home tonight. He'd doubted she would agree, but he'd been prepared to ask – beg, plead, bargain! – about that very issue. He'd formulated all manner of excuses and concessions just to ensure that she'd be _with _him in _some_ sense of the word so that he wouldn't have to wonder if that gutless, slithy, shukm-peddling booly-geber might be calling on her, charming her, claiming her affections...

Tarrant growls and reaches out to wrench open the door to his apartment.

"I'll thank you to treat me a bit more kindly from now on," the lock orders him, "or I'll not be telling you who's been by in your absence!"

Tarrant pauses, blinks, and addresses the fixture. "Who _has _been by?"

"A bit of trust is required for me to divulge _that,_" the useless, opinionated jumble of scrap metal rebukes. "But I _will _say this: you are, without a doubt, the luckiest son of a Witzend wild-man I've ever had the misfortune to be manhandled by!"

Tarrant opens his mouth to argue his father's sophistication. _Imagine a Hightopp_ _begin called a "wild-man"! The __**insult!**_

But the lock's next proclamation distracts him. "Don't _botch _it this time!"

And with that, the door swings open of its own accord.

Suddenly nervous as he recalls similar words from Chessur regarding his handling of Alice's madness, he steps into the room. The first thing he notices is the woman slumped against the sofa cushions in her pajamas. For a moment, he's sure he's imagining things. So he checks: shoes that _look _like Alice's are sitting by the door; an Alice-sized vest is draped across the armchair in the bedroom and... yes, the shirt and trousers she'd worn beneath her armor today seem to be in the laundry basket; a jar of ointment, a hair brush and various other Alice-y odds and ends are cluttering the top of the dresser. Tarrant blinks back the odd burning (but not from _madness!_) sensation in his eyes and smiles.

Confident now that he is _not _imagining Alice dozing on _their _sofa, he wanders back into the living room. As he approaches her, she doesn't stir and he takes a moment to simply look at her. She looks tired, certainly, but she also looks _well._

_Oh, how he's missed her!_

He reaches out to gently brush a curl away from the corner of her eye, but stops himself. No, she hasn't given him permission to touch her again. Not yet. He mustn't until she does.

Sighing, he pulls his hand back and that's when he notices the item lying on the sofa cushion next to her. His smile returns as he leans over and collects the small portrait of her. Kneeling at her feet, he cradles the thick parchment in his hands and reminds himself to thank Alice for sending this to him.

"You're late," she whispers suddenly.

Tarrant looks up and meets her bleary gaze. His heart thrills at the sight of her tired yet endearing smile.

"I'm sorry I kept you waiting."

She blinks and her smile widens. She looks down at the drawing in his hands. "I just about throttled Mirana when she told me she'd tucked that in with my letter to you."

"Why?" he asks, drawing the small portrait closer to his chest protectively.

Her gaze tracks the movement. "Mostly, I was embarrassed by it. It's very..."

"Ensnaring, enrapturing, sensual, scintillating, sultry, seductive, passionate, pleasurable, pleasing—!"

"Hatter..."

He giggles. "I'm fine." Glancing at the portrait once more, he murmurs, "And, while it was not my most preferred way to keep you with me, it... helped nonetheless. Despite how very far away your were, I could hold you in my hands again. It was... yes. Yes, it was." Setting the portrait aside gently, he turns his attention back to her. "Alice?"

"Is it all right that I'm here?" she asks worriedly. "I promise I'm fine. I won't hurt you again. I mean, like I did. The... madness is... I control it now. That's what Chessur and I were doing in the evenings. Testing my mind... I've faced it," she says solemnly. "I won't let it hurt _us _anymore."

Tarrant feels his heart throb at the incredible _strength _his Alice has.

She takes a steadying breath. "So... can I stay?"

"Alice," he says, slowly reaching for her hands and smiling broadly when she allows him to collect them in his own. "Alice, I don't care about the madness. Where else would I rather have you than here? In _our _home? ... _with me?_"

And she releases the breath she'd drawn in a long exhalation. "Thank you."

"Hush," he replies, caressing the back of her hands with his thumbs.

When Alice opens her eyes, his hopeful smile is waiting for her. "Having a shape-shifting, Outlandish-speaking cat around was very useful, but... I miss _your_ Outlandish," she murmurs.

He huffs out a breath of wry laughter. "I miss watching you as I speak it." He leans closer, examining her face. "Your eyes soften and your mouth opens just the smallest bit and, if I'm _very _lucky, I can watch your tongue wet your lower lip... yes... _just_ like that..."

He stares at her mouth until her fingers squeeze his. "Outlandish, _please,_" she implores.

And because he will give Alice anything she asks for, he complies, "Aye. Yer eyes b'come th'softest, deepest color o'warm dark tea an'yer lips open f'r me an'I'll do anythin'teh taste ye. An' yer breaths b'come pants tha'draw me in an' I cannae deny th'_need _teh touch ye, teh _have _ye, teh give ye wha'e'er ye ask o'me..."

Alice closes her eyes and shivers. "Yes," she moans-whispers-pleads softly. "I've missed that." She opens her eyes. "I've missed _you_."

Daringly, Tarrant leans forward and touches his forehead to hers. "I've missed _us,_ Alice."

She nods, her eyes tightly closed. And then she kisses him. His entire body sings at the soft touch. Her lips move languidly against his, lacking the purpose of passion that often drives her and then captivates him.

_Stop, lad! Alice is exhausted._

Yes, yes, of course. "Thank you," he whispers, pulling back.

Her smile is a bit wobbly, but it _is _a smile.

"I know it's not... That is, you're very tired, Alice, but I have to... I mean, I'd like to say that... I'm sorry."

"For what?" she asks.

"The promise, the Thrice a-Vow, the horridly _slurvish_ way I spoke to you when you trusted me for _answers and all I gave you was me own __**guilt an' fear an' I WAS SO AFRAID I'D LOSE YE, ALICE!"**_

"_Shhh..._" she croons after pressing a hand against his cheek. "Everything's fine. It's fine."

"I'm sorry," he says again. "You're tired and I'm... so _slurvish! I ne'er learn!_" Tarrant shakes himself as he stands. "Com'on, Alice, inteh bed wi'ye."

She allows him to pull her from the sofa and tuck her against his side. He ushers her into the bedroom and settles her down for the night. After tucking her in, he moves away, but her fingers reach for him and graze his wrist.

"Stay..." she breathes. "Missed you..."

Remembering the last time she'd woken up beside him, he hesitates. "Are ye sure?"

"Stay..."

Tarrant quickly disrobes then slides into the bed with her and wraps her up in his arms. He can feel her warm breath puffing against his chest and the weight of her body as she relaxes into sleep.

Tarrant forces himself to stay awake just a while longer in order to relish the feel of her. _Here. In his arms. __**Finally!**_

"No one will take ye away from me again," he mouths into her hair.

And with that vow, he knows exactly what he has to do. First thing in the morning, Tarrant Hightopp is going to do right by Alice Kingsleigh. If she chooses him in the light of day, with a clear mind and an open heart, he'll have a ring for her and a promise of his own.

* * *

[End of Chapter 14: Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]


	71. Book 2, Heart or Soul, 2 of 2

**__****Chapter Fourteen: Heart or Soul ****[Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]**

Alice's grand plans for a memorable reunion with her husband are completely and utterly scuppered when she opens her eyes to the late morning sunshine and notices a very conspicuous lack of Tarrant-noise in the too-silent apartment.

Groaning, she rolls over, buries her nose in his pillow, and swears. _Of course_ she'd forgotten one very _obvious _fact yesterday evening when she'd daringly promised herself a passionate lie-in with Tarrant... Like the fact that he's the _Royal Hatter _and the following day will be the first of a massive celebration.

Not for the first time, Alice damns the greed of the White Queen's courtiers.

She wishes she could merely close her eyes, roll over, and _wish _him into bed with her, but she knows it won't work. Grumbling, Alice throws back the covers, summons a frog footman and requests a bath and, following that, tea.

Once she's presentable and the tea service is on its way, Alice indulges in a moment to consider her heart line. She really _ought _to consult that tome of Mirana's about it. She vaguely remembers Mirana saying something about being able to use it to communicate with one's blood-bonded spouse and is utterly frustrated at her inability to recall reading that. Of course, at the time, she'd been more focused on _what _they'd done to each other rather than _how _it could be used to benefit both of them.

"I shall have to rectify that today," she whispers to the bay window. And, at that moment, the tea service arrives. Alice rises and opens the door, then blinks down at not only Marshing but a certain hatpin-swishing dormouse with twinkling, secret-filled eyes.

Alice thanks the frog then, as he enters to place his burden on the table, she points her finger at Mally. "Whatever it is you know that I don't had better be something you're planning on telling me if I invite you to tea."

Mally cackles. "Oh, well, you _know _I'd tell you if I _could,_ but as it's not my secret..."

"Uh huh. Thanks for stopping by, Mally," Alice says, moving to close the door.

"Now, just hold on a minute, Alice!" The persistent dormouse's voice squeaks through the tiny crack between the door and the jamb caused by the insertion of her hatpin. "I said I couldn't _tell _you, but there ain't nuthin' wrong with you guessin'..."

Alice sighs and opens the door again.

"Thanks, luv," Mally says, strutting inside and heading for the table. "I _do _enjoy a cup of Throeston Blend!"

Alice sees Marshing out and, with an exasperated sigh and a fond smile, joins Mally at the table. Seating herself, she pours them each a cup of tea and tosses Mally some Battenburg.

"That was quite the speech yesterday," Mally says by way of opening.

"Thank you," Alice replies. "Does this secret you know – but I don't – have anything to do with Tarrant?" With that delightfully, determinedly devious light in the dormouse's eyes, Tarrant is always a good place to start guessing...

"Could be," Mally answers, then fires off, "How'd you know they'd go for it?"

Alice shrugs. "It made sense they would."

"Made sense to _you, _you mean."

"Is Tarrant planning to Futterwhacken at the celebration?" Alice guesses while it's her turn.

Mally considers that. "If you asked him to, I'm sure he would." The dormouse leans forward eagerly. "_Are_ you going to ask him to? I haven't seen him Futterwhacken since the Battle of Frabjous Day!"

"I'll think about it," Alice replies.

"So, how come you ain't gallymoggers anymore, Alice?" Mally accuses.

Alice's brows arc. "Are you disappointed I'm not?"

"'Course I am! Suppose you think you're too good for us now!"

"_Mally!_" Alice huffs.

The dormouse giggles. "Oh, you know I don't mean nuthin' by it, Alice. You don't have to be mad as the rest o' us if you don't want to."

"Thank you for understanding," Alice replies, happy to avoid telling Mally exactly why she'd chosen to purge herself of that madness. No, if Alice were to tell Mally that she'd _hurt _Tarrant, that she'd made him _bleed_, the dormouse wouldn't rest until she'd exacted revenge.

"So, how'd you do it? De-mad yourself?"

Alice waits until Mally has taken another noisy sip of her tea. "Well, as it was mainly Outlandish and... um, male laughter that triggered it, I asked Chess to shape-shift into the Hatter and..." Alice shrugs.

"Oooh...!" Mally places both paws on the rim of her cup and leans so far over the edge, she's only a soft breeze away from drowning herself in it. "Did you get in a few good swipes?" she demands excitedly.

Frowning, Alice opens her mouth to reply.

_Knock knock!_

Mally turns to look at the door as Alice focuses on it over her head.

"Were you expecting someone for tea?" Mally wonders aloud, oddly suspicious.

"No," Alice replies bluntly. "But I suppose the queen would like a word..."

Yesterday, Mirana had gently pulled her aside and confessed her desire to hold her and Dale's wedding as soon as possible – on the third day of the celebration, to be exact. Alice winces at the thought of all the hullabaloo _that _will cause, but can't deny her happiness for the queen. After all that she and her former prince have been through recently, after the strain they'd been under through their bond (courtesy of the First Claw Dale had given her and she'd accepted), Alice can understand perfectly why they'd rather not wait any longer to finalize their vows and begin the rest of their lives together.

Alice rises from the table, strides over to the door, pulls it open and blinks at the creature on the other side of it.

"Leif..." Frowning, Alice asks, "Is everything all right?" She spares a brief thought for her broadsword in the other room.

The lion draws a breath and rumbles softly, "Could I come in?"

From the table, Mally shouts, "Don't let that booly-geber in here! Get out, you! This is the _Hatter and Alice's_ place and you're not welcome here!"

Turning, Alice hisses, "_Mally! _What's gotten into you?"

"You just tell him to go away, Alice," the dormouse orders.

But, feeling rather contrary today, Alice ignores her. "What is it?" she asks Leif instead.

His voice is still feather-soft when he requests, "Could you accompany me for a moment?"

"We're in the middle of _tea_," Mally points out in a hostile tone.

Alice grits her teeth.

"Never mind," Leif says. "I came here to give you this. It's yours."

He hands Alice a small, silk pouch and then, with a flick of his tail, turns and stalks down the hall. Confused, Alice watches him go. Then she steps back and closes the door.

"What is it?" Mally asks with what sounds like apprehension.

"I don't know..." Turning, Alice fiddles with the stings of the pouch and upends it over her palm.

A tangle of leather cord and a single ivory-colored claw lands in her hand.

Mally gasps.

Alice gapes.

"Oh... oh no, Alice. Did you... just accept... _that?_ From _him?_"

Alice looks up at Mally's horrified expression. She feels her own face pulling into a frightful scowl. Without another word, Alice pivots on her heel and charges out the door, automatically slamming it shut behind her and ignoring the keyhole's shout of protest.

* * *

Overall, it had been a rather productive morning. He'd awakened just after dawn from the dream of the most delightful ring on Alice's heart-line finger. Recognizing the design, he'd carefully extracted himself from bed and rushed down to his workshop. Rather than start working on it right away, however, he'd forced himself to attend to several of the hat orders he'd received overnight. (Easily a dozen missives had been slid under the door at some point, each detailing a particular accessory for the queen's victory celebration.)

As he'd worked on more familiar tasks, his mind had been busy considering the _un_familiar venture that had come to him in the dream...

_I shall need a hammer..._

_No, no, don't want scratches, so a cloth of some sort, a barrier..._

_Perhaps heating would assist in..._

_Yes. Shall have to see about that. A candle? _

_No, scorching. Don't want scorching on..._

And on and on it had gone until he'd convinced himself that he'd determined the best method and then had set about practicing with a bit of scrap – chortling in delight at his success – before attempting the final version.

Tarrant's right hand dips into one of his many jacket pockets and his scraped, blistered, and raw fingertips brush against the small object within. He marvels at its diminutive size, for how can such a small thing _truly _represent his love for Alice?

He hears himself whistling softly as he strides toward the apartment. He's later than he'd expected, unfortunately. He regrets that his proposal will be a luncheon one rather than an as-she-first-opens-her-eyes one. But perhaps that's for the best; Alice tends to be a bit drowsy and out of sorts before her first cup of tea anyway...

Allowing the scene he's planned and prepared for to play out in his mind, Tarrant feels his chest tighten with anticipation and joy. He wonders at the odd sensation. And he giggles at the thought of surprising Alice... He hasn't had the opportunity to give her many _pleasant _surprises. Oh, he _does _hope she'll like this one!

"About time you got back," the keyhole grouches.

In too pleasant a mood to be bothered, he merely opens the door.

"Oh, dear. Oh, _dear, oh, dear, oh __**dear!**_"

Tarrant feels his elation deflate as the door swings open and he sees not Alice but Mally, who is pacing back and forth over the table – which had been set for morning tea – and quite obviously fretting.

"Mally?" Tarrant asks, glancing around. "Is Alice here?"

"No! No, she isn't and we haven't a moment to lose!" Mally shouts, clamoring down from the table and racing toward him. Tarrant scoops her up in his palm and sets her down on his shoulder.

"What is it? What's happened? _Where's Alice?_"

"I don't _know!_" Mally wails. "I was doing just as you asked – keeping Alice busy until you came back with the... _you-know-what_... but then that _lion _showed up and he...! And he...!"

Tarrant clenches his jaw and struggles to keep the encroaching madness at bay. "He _what?_" he demands, picturing all sorts of horrible things: Alice _taken __**again!**_ Alice in the paws of that... that... that...!

"He gave her his First Claw, Hatter!"

The anger chokes him. He hears an odd sort of wheezing snarl and it takes a poke in the shoulder from Mally's hatpin sword to distract him from the Blackness. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and – striding for the still-open door – asks, "D'she accept it?"

"He didn't give her a choice, that rotten blighter! Gave it to her in a pouch an' when she opened it up and turned it over the claw fell right into her hand! Oh, _Hatter!_"

Tarrant races down the stairs, his heart pounding but not from exertion, his mind a chaotic mass of denial.

_No, no, no, NO, NO, __**NO, NO, NO—!**_

_How could that bloody lion have __**done this? WHY?**_

**I'll nae let tha'bastard **_**take MY ALICE!**_

"Does she know?" Tarrant growls. "Does she know what this means?"

Mally, grasping the hatpin which she'd stabbed through his jacket's shoulder seam to keep herself from tumbling off, shrieks, "I've no idea! _Who_ knows _**what**_ goes on inside that woman's head?"

"If she d'snea know..."

"Won't make a _bit_ of difference unless she can convince him to take it back. _Willingly._"

Later, Tarrant will wonder how he'd managed to make it down all those stairs without managing to kill both himself and Mally as he'd skidded and slipped around corners and crashed into walls. Later, Tarrant will marvel at the fact that he _hadn't _actually allowed the madness to engulf him despite feeling it pulsing beneath his skin, crouching just beyond the periphery of his vision. Later, Tarrant will wonder if giving in to it might have been more merciful.

But at the moment, he struggles to remember everything he knows about the First Claw. He vaguely remembers that the exchange initiates the bonding of two souls and, although the bond is stronger if each creature gives its First Claw to the other, only one is actually necessary. He also recalls that once the claw passes from its owner and touches the skin of the intended recipient, it cannot be returned. Not without the owner allowing it and intending to release the recipient from the merging of their souls.

And with every minute that passes following the exchange, the process becomes more and more difficult to reverse, for with every minute that passes, the two souls move – little by little – each toward the other until...

_D'nae think it, lad! FIND ALICE!_

Yes, yes, he must find Alice and tell her... tell her before it's too late!

He can see the door – standing open – to that frumious, dirt-snuffling, shukm-lickering bastard's rooms just ahead!

Nearly there!

"_Hatter! STOP! What are you going to __**say?**_"

He doesn't answer because the answer doesn't matter. All that matters is Alice and he'll do and say _**whatever **_he must to **keep** her!

* * *

[End of Chapter 14: Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]


	72. Book 2, Her Choice, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Fifteen: Her Choice **_[Scenes 1 & 2 of 3]

Alice doesn't bother to knock.

In the wake of the absolutely _wretched _violation of her will, she doesn't particularly think Leif _deserves _to have his privacy respected.

The door bangs open and rebounds off the wall with a thunderous _boom!_ as Alice strides over the threshold. She lifts the leather cord – careful not to touch the claw any more than she already has – and demands, "_What do you think you're DOING?_"

"Alice," Leif says from the middle of the room. "Please hear me out."

"Of course. _After you TAKE THIS __**BACK!**_"

He shakes his head. "I can't do that."

"Why _won't _you?" she growls. "Do you even _care _that I _don't WANT THIS?_"

He winces. "I'm doing this _for_ you. Please, don't make this any harder than it already is."

"Any harder..." she muses in stunned disbelief. "You're coming between a husband and wife and you _ask __**me**_ _not to make this ANY HARDER?_"

Leif dares to take a step toward her and Alice's right hand reaches for her sword... right before she remembers that she'd charged out of the apartment without bothering to arm herself. "Alice," he murmurs. "You're not _actually _married to him."

"I _beg _your pardon?"

"The Thrice a-Vow, it's not a marriage vow."

Through gritted teeth, Alice manages, "I. Don't. Care."

"You don't have to _stay _with him!"

"That doesn't mean I should be with _you!_" she tosses back.

Leif winces. "I'll never hurt you, Alice."

"Neither would he," she rebuts, for the moment deciding not to mention either the gross injustice Leif has done her – forcing a Soul Bond upon her by offering her his First Claw in such a slithy, underhanded manner! – or Tarrant's well-meaning mistakes. But, of the two, there's no doubt in her mind as to which she prefers.

The lion's golden eyes narrow. "You're wrong. He's dangerous, Alice. You ought to keep away from him."

"Whether or not I do is _my choice! Release me from this vow!_"

Leif merely shakes his mane and says one word, "No."

Alice's fist clenches around the leather cord until her short nails dig into her palm. "Why?"

"I already—"

"No. You haven't. Two days ago you couldn't stand to look at me. And _now – __**suddenly **_– you've decided to _save me?_"

He sighs. "You don't understand. _I _didn't understand. I thought you were stubbornly throwing your life away after Dale and I had given up _everything _to spare it!"

Although Alice hates repeating herself, she finds that, in this situation, the words still apply: "That would have been _my CHOICE!_"

"_And sometimes the people who love you __**should take that choice AWAY!**_"

Alice scoffs. "Are you saying you _love _me, Leif?"

"I am. I do. More than anything. Please, Alice," he beckons.

Unbelievably, Alice feels herself sway _toward _him. No, _no!_ She grits her teeth and keeps herself from taking the step closer to him that _something _within her yearns for.

"You don't love me. You don't even _know me._"

His eyes narrow. "I think I _do_."

Alice glares. "The woman you met in Shuchland was _half _of herself! The entire time she was there, she was thinking of _home_ and she was thinking of _her Hatter!_" She studies him for any signs of weakness. Quietly, she continues, "Every time you had to repeat a question, every time you had to restate an observation, every time you had to remind me of my duties... _every single time, _I was thinking of him. Missing _**him.**_"

Leif shakes his head. "He's a dangerous, jealous man, Alice. What you were feeling was from the heart line—"

In a frighteningly calm tone, Alice interrupts, "How dare you tell me what I was or wasn't feeling. I spent three years in Upland waiting to see him again! I _do _know my own mind, Leif!"

And finally, there's a flicker of doubt in his expression.

"Three years, I waited for him. Three years, I did my duty to my family and my father's memory," she elaborates, fisting her right hand as well and fighting against the magnetic pull that urges her closer to him. "Three years, of _missing _the man who'd endured capture and torture for me, who'd forfeited his own life to save mine, who'd stepped up against the Jabberwocky when I'd fallen, who'd asked me _to stay in Underland rather than go back to the petty, superficial torture of my old life and do you have __**any idea how hard it was to LEAVE HIM?**_" Alice forces herself to take a deep, cleansing breath.

Into the sudden silence, Leif says with quiet compassion, "I think I do. Alice..." He moves toward her and Alice _makes _herself take a step back toward the corridor. "Do you have any idea how hard it is for me to know you're _with him_ and wonder what his jealousy and madness could do to you?"

"You underestimate me. _Again_," she informs him. "I have faced Tarrant's madness before. He has _never _hurt me. I won't _allow _him to hurt me."

"You shouldn't _have to_ face that AT ALL! NOT FROM YOUR HUSBAND!"

"I shouldn't _have to_ face BETRAYAL FROM MY FRIEND!"

Alice takes another step back, away from him. "You claim to know me so well – or, well enough to love me, in any case – but how can that be when you misunderstand me so easily?" She shakes her head, frustrated almost beyond words.

Leif pauses. "What have I misunderstood?"

Alice inhales deeply, opens her mouth, and... "_Ahhh!_"

She stumbles as the unmistakable acidic burn of Tarrant's _**rage **_bursts and burns from the Heart Mark. Her hand rises, clutches at her shirt.

_Oh, dear Fates... Tarrant __**knows!**_

"Alice? Alice? Are you all right?"

She opens her eyes and, gasping, flinches away from Leif's paw as he reaches for her. Separating herself from him makes her entire being ache, as if she's trying to lift a weight too heavy for her body to bear. "Do. Not. Touch me."

Alice pulls herself up with the help of the doorjamb and knows she has very little time left. Tarrant will be here any moment and – armed or not – she doubts he'll be satisfied with simply removing her from Leif's presence. No, she's relatively sure Tarrant will kill him. Or at least give it his very best effort. And in a battle of brute strength, she doesn't doubt who is most likely to be injured... or killed.

"_Brangergain i'tall!_" she curses, her mind working furiously.

"Alice?" Leif queries.

From the end of the hall, running footsteps echo nearer, nearer, nearer still...!

She knows she's out of time. And the only way clear of this mess she can see is unbearable, but at least Tarrant will be alive and safe and still innocent of the crimes of which Alice has learned she herself is undeniably capable.

Tarrant's pounding steps are closer now. She only has a few moments left.

Alice looks up at Leif, who hovers over her, and _glares._

"I don't think I'm capable of _ever _forgiving you for this," she informs him.

And then, standing, Alice places herself between the man she loves and the lion she cannot allow him to confront.

* * *

He still has absolutely no idea of what he'll say – nor has he started caring in the last two seconds since Mally had asked – when he grasps the open doorjamb with his bandaged fingers and scrambles to a halt. On his shoulder, Mally's small body bounces with the sudden stop and she squeaks in fright.

Tarrant can't bring himself to care at the moment. For in front of him is Alice.

_Alice._

_His Alice._

And around her neck is Leif's First Claw.

For a moment, he simply stares, unable – _unwilling!_ – to understand...

It's Mally's gasp that assures him what he's seeing is real. This is not a nightmare, not a daymare, not an illusion, delusion, or mirage despite the fact that it illustrates – embodies, manifests! – his greatest fear, his most insurmountable terror, his deepest and darkest horror.

"Alice?" he hears himself ask, breathless with panic, physical exertion, and disbelief. _His_ Alice would not have acquiesced to the Soul Bond! **_Never!_**

She closes her eyes and sighs. "I'm sorry."

Tarrant regards her warily, his chin twitching to the side and his brows drawing together. "No..."

Alice opens her eyes and repeats those two words that defeat him: "I'm sorry."

"No, _no, no, NO, NO, __**NO, NO!**_" Tarrant directs his attention to the bastard who had done this unforgivable thing, who had stolen away _his Alice's **soul!**_ **"**_**Ye slurvish slurking urpal SLACKUSH SCRUM!**_**"** he screams.

"_HATTER!_" Mally hollers in his ear.

He doesn't heed her.

"_Alice can make up her OWN MIND about who she __**is**_'_r is__**nae**_ _married teh!_" he quotes the lion. "YER WORDS, YE GUTLESS, SHRIFTY, _GUDDLER'S SHUKM-LICKERING—!_"

"_Hatter!_"

_This _voice Tarrant responds to, can't _help _but respond to. He blinks and notices he'd crossed the room, stalking closer and closer to that... that... _that...!_

"_Hatter._"

He clenches his jaw, takes a deliberate breath, wrangles the rage, and looks down into calm, brown eyes.

"Alice," he whispers. "Don't... I can't... Raven, _please!_"

She stands close enough for him to embrace. So close. So very, very close. But her hands are braced against his shoulders, holding him back. Holding him back from attacking the creature who has taken her from him. Holding him back from the creature she stands with now.

"No, _no_..." He shakes his head and raises his hands, reaches for her wrists. But because he's not sure what he'll do when he grasps her, he stops himself, his fingers twitching and curling in the open air. "Alice, choose me," he begs around the fist in his throat, choking him more effectively than Stayne had ever done. "I _must _keep you, Alice. Please let me..."

He asks for the impossible, he knows. But if anyone can fight the absolute power of a Soul Bond, it is _his Alice!_

And, for a moment, it seems as if she might, she will, she is...!

And then Alice gently pushes him away.

"I'm sorry," she says.

Just those two hateful words. That and no more.

Tarrant feels his jaw unhinge in shock. So quickly, so easily, he's lost her.

Numb, he allows Alice to shove him backward toward the open door, over the threshold, and into the hall.

"Look after him, Mally," he hears Alice whisper but the words don't make any sense. Why would Mally take care of him? Why Mally when it's Alice who will... who has always... who he'd prefer... who he _needs...?_

And then Alice steps back into the room and shuts the door.

The sound echoes in the hallway until silence returns.

Silence and nothingness.

Perhaps he ought to follow Mally's insistent urging to go and see Mirana. Perhaps he ought to go back upstairs to the apartment and hide Alice's things. Perhaps he ought to start breathing again. Perhaps he ought to allow his heart to start beating again. Perhaps, but what would be the point?

He pulls Mally from his shoulder, sets her down on the pale, gleaming floor, and does something he most definitely _ought __**not **_to do:

He goes to the hat workshop to begin the task of destroying what is left of his life.

* * *

[End of Chapter 15: Scenes 1 & 2 of 3]


	73. Book 2, Her Choice, 2 of 2

**_Warning: This chapter contains sexual situations which feature SEXUAL AGGRESSION._**

**_However, it IS CONSENSUAL._**

* * *

_**Chapter Fifteen: Her Choice **_[Scene 3 of 3]

Gasping, Alice struggles with the pain, Tarrant's pain, the pain _she'd _caused him, the pain Leif had made possible with his utterly stupid, heroically short-sighted rush to _save _her from the man she loves.

"Alice...?"

"Not. A. Word," she demands, tearing the leather thong from around her neck and fighting with the self-disgust and nausea she knows has nothing to do with Tarrant and everything to do with the games of deception she's gotten so very good at playing.

For long moments, Leif simply watches her. And when Alice finally manages to stand upright on her own, he asks, "Why did you do that if you don't intent to accept—?"

Her laughter is cruel and humorless and she feels the darkness of her own brand of madness wrap its hot tentacles around her. "Why do you think?" she grates out. "To keep him safe."

She looks at him, finally, and she can see that he still doesn't understand. "Do you think I want Tarrant to live with the fact that he'd killed someone – even you – in a fit of madness? Do you think I'd allow you to injure him while defending yourself? Do you think I'd tolerate you _touching _him?"

Leif flinches.

"And now," Alice continues, "that we have more _time_ to spend on our discussion, I'll tell you exactly what's going to happen next. I'm going to walk out that door, find Tarrant, and _beg _him to forgive me for hurting him. I'm going back to _him_ and there are one of two things you can choose to do about it." Alice takes a menacing step toward him. Her entire being bursts with joy and delight at the shortened distance between them. Despite that, she persists, "You can do the _right thing _and release me by accepting your First Claw back. _Or_, you can try to stop me and find out _exactly _what sorts of things I've learned from those mercenaries, and I'll warn you, mercy isn't one of them."

The lion gapes at her. "Alice, don't you... The Soul Bond, don't you feel it?" he asks, clearly stunned by her continuing resistance.

Hating it, but being unable to deny the truth, Alice acknowledges, "You can take my soul and there's nothing I can do about it. But I'm **not** letting you take Tarrant away from me, _too_."

And, with that, Leif finally _sees _her. She stares into his golden eyes and watches the understanding, resignation, and acceptance dull their color. His shoulders droop as he reaches out and accepts the claw and its leather string from Alice's offered fist.

"Champion Alice," he begins, "I..."

"Will stay here for the time being," Alice instructs him. "Dale still needs you."

He opens his mouth, closes it, looks away, and says, "Is there nothing I can do to make this right?"

"Perhaps," Alice muses. "In a few days, you might consider giving Tarrant a heartfelt apology. At the very least." And then, considering her husband's temper, Alice adds, "I'll let you know if I think that's wise."

He nods and, gaining control of his emotions, regards her once more. "I'd go with you if I thought it would help. Despite my... error in judgment, the last thing I want to see is you hurt."

"If you're worried about Tarrant hurting me, then you're wasting your time."

Alice doesn't stay to debate the issue. She strides toward the door, relishing the fact that she _can _move away from the lion without feeling the strain of separation, and steps out into the hall.

"_Alice!_"

Startled, Alice glances down at a frantic-looking Mally.

"What are you doing here? I asked you to—!"

"I _know!_" Mally despairs. "He wouldn't take me with him!"

"Where's he gone?"

"He was mumbling about some fez or other..."

Alice closes her eyes and knows _precisely _where he is: in the hat workshop. She tells Mally to go and find him there. "Come and find me in the alchemy library if he's _not _there or it sounds as if he's hurting himself."

The dormouse glowers up at her. "You're not comin' to set this right?"

"I am. I _will_. But I can't just rush in there _blindly!_"

"Oh, yes, you can!"

Alice raises her left hand and fists it. "I need every weapon I have for sorting this out," she tells her. "And I still don't know how to use this one!"

The dormouse snorts. "What's to know? You concentrate on what you feel then _send_ it to him along your heart line and _will _it into his. Easy as pilgar pie!"

Alice narrows her eyes. "Are you _sure?_"

"Yes," Mally says.

And when Alice waits but the dormouse says nothing further, simply holds her ground and glares back, Alice nods. "All right. Then I'll be in the hat workshop."

"Wait!" Mally cries as Alice straightens. "I'm coming, too!"

Alice shakes her head. "No, Mally." And then Alice sprints for the other side of the castle. She feels an instant of faint guilt at leaving her friend behind, but the fewer witnesses to Tarrant's madness and the darkness within him, the better. Alice doesn't expect she'll get out of this coming confrontation unscathed, but she'll be damned if she lets anyone _else _see what Tarrant is capable of.

The very thought of what those strong hands could do to her should frighten her, should made her pause and consider her actions, formulate a plan. But taking the cautious road has never been her style. And, by the time she maps out her strategy and rediscovers her courage it might be too late.

She will not _allow _it to be too late for Tarrant, for her, for _them._

Alice passes frog footmen and fish butlers, courtiers and guards. If they call out to her, she does not notice. Her intent is focused on one place, one man. And when she arrives at her destination, winded from racing up the stairs, she pauses at the door and listens to the ruckus coming from within.

Tarrant is lost within the madness. The persistent burning emanating from the Heart Mark confirms it.

Alice takes a deep breath and reaches for the latch.

And, seeing her heart line, she pauses.

She presses her right hand over the Heart Mark, Tarrant's mark. Krystoval had told her that she already knows the meaning of both this shape and the one marking Tarrant's chest, caging his heart in her blood, but she thinks she understands far more than that now. In fact, she can no longer deny that she _does _understand it. The _knowing _comes from somewhere within her as if it has wrapped around her bones and drifted into her blood; she _understands _the Thrice a-Vow inexplicably, totally.

She remembers thinking Krystoval's flower had been the very best gift she'd ever received, but now, looking at Tarrant's heart line, sensing – _knowing – _what it truly means, she realizes she'd been wrong. Very wrong.

This mark... this evidence of absolute _trust_... _this _is the most precious of gifts.

Tarrant had, quite literally, given his heart into her keeping.

And she holds it in the palm of her hand.

_Please do not let me break it,_ she begs of the Fates, of the gods, of the magic of Underland, of whatever power may be listening.

And then she opens the door.

She gasps at the utter, complete, and total _ruin _of the room: benches have been overturned; scattered bolts fabric lie torn and twisted; buttons, ribbons, and sewing implements litter the floor...

Tarrant leans over a table that had been carefully arranged with the hats he'd prepared for the celebration on the morrow and, with a reckless swipe of his arm, sends them flying across the room.

Knowing further hesitation will merely delay the inevitable, Alice steps forward and says his name.

He freezes and glares at the bare tabletop before him, his expression twitching with confusion, uncertainty, and something so frightening Alice very nearly makes for the door.

But no. No, she will not. Leave. Him. Again.

No matter what.

"Alice?" he growls, a terrifyingly toothy grin revealing itself from between his dark lips. Once again, his eyes are shadowed by the sooty hue that comes with deep madness.

"I'm here," she replies, closing the door and moving forward. He doesn't move, doesn't twitch a muscle, as she approaches. Her instincts scream at her to keep the bare table between them, but in the end she can't bring herself to force even that minuscule distance upon him. Stopping beside him, she places a hand on his arm and waits.

His gaze flickers briefly in her direction, too fast for her to catch the exact color of his eyes.

"Where is it?" he demands in a gruff, deep tone.

She shivers at the voice of _this _madness. _This _is a side of him she's never seen or heard before. And it scares her.

"Where is what?" she asks, her voice barely a whisper of breath from a dry mouth and a tense throat.

His nostrils flare and Alice imagines he's catching the scent of her fear...

His manic grin twitches and then...

... and then!

Alice gasps as she's thrown bodily onto the bare tabletop. Her arms windmill for a moment before her palms connect with the wood behind her. Tarrant grasps her knees, pulls them wide, steps between them then reaches up to her tunic and tears the neckline open.

"Where is it?" he repeats on a snarl and looks into her eyes.

Alice can only stare at his irises – not red, not violet, but a frightening mix of both: _magenta_.

Sensing a single whisper, a single motion will result in something unavoidably disastrous, Alice remains perfectly still. Tarrant smiles again and lowers his nose to her throat. Snuffling, he works his way downward to the space just between her breasts.

"I smell it on you," he rasps. "Where is it?"

Heart pounding, Alice searches for her voice. It evades her.

"Have you hidden it? Hidden that piece of him? Or has he marked you?" Tarrant leans back just enough to look into her eyes and inform her, "I've marked you. Marked you first. You're mine, Alice. He won't have you until I'm done with you." He leans closer, closer until Alice can feel his chest pressing against hers. His teeth nip at her ear. He warns her, "I'm not done with you yet."

She bites her lip to keep the shiver under control. It doesn't work. He undoubtedly feels it as he's pressed so tightly against her. He chuckles.

"You shouldn't have come here, Alice," he informs her in that deep tone, each word perfectly and properly enunciated. Alice does her best not to panic at the sound of those non-lisped, non-Outlandish-ized words. _Who are you?_ she wants to ask, but doesn't.

She knows who this is. This is Tarrant. Her husband. Pushed beyond all reason and even madness. She wishes she could feel relieved at finally meeting his Darkness face-to-face.

"Do you know why you should have stayed away?" he muses aloud.

Mute, she shakes her head.

His magenta eyes focus on her throat, on her pulse which must be shuddering wildly beneath her skin. He glances up at her through his brows. "Then I'll show you..."

_Oh, dear—!_

Her silent plea remains unvoiced and incompletely conceived. Tarrant reaffirms his grip behind her knees and _drags_ her toward him. His hips – still clothed – fit against her pelvis and Alice experiences a sudden and all encompassing flash of heat at the feel of him, so hard against her softness. She has no delusions as to how the next few seconds might very well have played out had she been wearing naught but a skirt and flimsy underthings.

The idea nearly makes her eyes roll back in her head. The fear and uncertainty and his power and her need and his aggression and her want are a heady mixture in her mind, in her blood.

"_Yes..._" she tells him. _Yes, anything you want. Yes, everything I want._ Even though it terrifies her. Yes, she tells him, accepts him: " _Tarrant..._"

His mouth and hands are suddenly – roughly – moving over her: her neck, her breasts, her back, her hips, her thighs. She gasps at his strength. He's never been so dominating, so utterly intoxicating... She'd treasured his gentle-and-hesitant then frantic-and-impassioned lovemaking, but this... _this..._ she's craved for far too long.

She's _craved_ this since he'd pinned her down on the croquet pitch with his body and she'd wrapped her legs around his torso and had tried to compress his ribs painfully enough to force his surrender.

She's _needed _this since he'd pinned her down in this very room when she'd dared to attempt an attack on him with a ridiculously inadequate cheese knife.

She's _dreamed_ of this since that first glimpse of violet in his eyes after she'd administered ointment to his bruised side under the boughs of the trees beside the pitch.

She's _wanted _this since he'd knocked the fighting staff from her hands and had spun her around, trapping her against his chest, then had dared her to fight back.

She's _desired _this ever since he'd silently watched her drink that thrice-damned Jabberwocky blood **instead of** grabbing the vial from her hand then shaking her soundly before pulling her into his arms and forcing her lips open with his own and _claiming _her mouth!

No, that moment of possession – of _ownership_ – hadn't happened _then._

It is happening _now._

"Mine," he growls against her Heart Mark, his teeth scraping over her breast.

Alice wraps her legs around his waist and pulls him closer.

"_Yours..._" she agrees, her fingers curling against the table's surface. She commands herself _not _to reach for him.

"I can do anything I want with you," he murmurs darkly.

Alice opens her eyes and shivers at the look he gives her: that unsettlingly aggressive magenta stare through his brows.

"And you'll let me, won't you, my Alice?"

She nods.

"If I wanted you on your hands and knees on the croquet pitch..." he purrs.

Alice gasps her agreement.

"If I wanted you spread open for me over the queen's throne with her courtiers looking on..."

_Oooh..._ "_Yes..._"

"If I wanted you to crawl to me before opening your mouth and closing your soft lips around me–" He thrusts himself against the cradle of her hips and she cannot possibly misunderstand his meaning.

"I would," she agrees, helplessly. "_I would._"

He grins. "I believe you." His gaze rakes down her hungrily. "However, just at the moment, I've something else in mind."

Alice isn't sure how much more of this she can take – the fear, the desire, the unbelievable volatile heat-violence-virility of him – before she breaks.

"Yes," she agrees blindly.

Tarrant raises his palm and gently cups her cheek. "Good girl, Alice. It's best to accept these things, for no amount of protestations will stop me from having you however I like."

She closes her eyes and leans into his hand, knowing what she's doing is dangerous. She's participating in the Darkness – welcoming it, prolonging it – instead of calling him back into the light, but she can't stop herself. "Then take what you want," she whispers, opening her eyes and giving in to him.

A flash of a smile is all she sees before his mouth is on her neck, biting and sucking the flesh with uncompromising hunger. She feels his hands on her, one on the small of her back, pressing, arcing her toward him and the other opening one thigh wider. Then, in a flurry of effort, he pulls her to the very edge of the table, raises her knees up, unbalances her so that she has to lean back on her elbows, helpless and open. He kneels between her thighs and with another of those meltingly intense gazes, opens his mouth and scrapes his teeth over her fabric-clad crotch.

"_Ahhh!_" She spares a brief thought for passersby and the unlocked door... and that just so happens to be the last thought she is capable of sparing for some time.

His hands splay open over the junctures of her thighs and pelvis and she braces her feet on his shoulders, offering herself to his will. His thumbs press against her center and she can feel him just _there. _Just _barely _inside her – and he _would have been if not for these __**damn **__trousers!_ – and it makes her mindless with need.

"_Please, please, please, please..._" she begs. The litany trips off her tongue as necessary as her next breath. She surrenders over and over again with each rough swipe of his teeth over the fabric, with every wave of vibrations that tease and torment her and every hot breath she imagines she feels against her core.

Time stops, she's sure. But no, Tarrant had. When no further stimulation is forthcoming, she opens her eyes and, panting, looks down the length of her body at him. Those striking eyes are watching her expression as he opens his mouth. His tongue appears and she stares as he applies it _directly to the cloth over her most sensitive place._

He licks, breathes, bites, scrapes, nuzzles, and sucks viciously.

She comes.

She hears herself scream his name, feels her entire body flame, gives in to the white-star-studded blackness that erupts behind her closed eyelids. The pounding of her heart swallows her whole and some innumerable breaths later, Alice realizes that Tarrant has... stopped.

With the exception of her own panting exhalations and the ticking of the clock, the room is very, very silent.

"Tarrant?" she asks, dazed.

"A... Alice?"

She smiles at the sound of the familiar lisp. Forcing her rubbery limbs to obey, she sits up. Still kneeling, Tarrant's expression oscillates between confusion, apprehension, and terror. She reaches for him, urging him to stand and then she leans her forehead against his shoulder and wraps her arms around his trembling body.

"Did I...? Did I...? Alice?"

"Hmmm..." she manages. "I'm considering things that begin with the letter 'M'," she muses against his jacket. "Marvelous. Magnificent. Monumental." She rubs herself against the bulge still straining against his trouser front.

He gasps. "I don't... understand. I... You are..."

Before Alice can attempt a reassuring response, he steps back and grasps Alice's upper arms. "Alice? Are you really here?"

"Yes." She presses her hand against his cheek and his eyes – now green – drift nearly closed in relief.

"I think I dreamed you here, but it was a nightmare because of the things I said and I did and I wanted so _very_ badly to do such very **bad **things to you, but it wasn't me, _couldn't _be me because I would never want to do those sorts of things to you, to make you hurt and make you feel afraid of me... I don't want you to be afraid of me, Alice."

Again, she opens her mouth to reply but he rushes on.

"I couldn't _bear _it if you were afraid of me! Please don't be afraid. I'll never think those things again. I promise, I swear, I vow, I... I..." He leans his forehead against her shoulder and shudders. "I need you to choose me, Alice. I shouldn't ask you, but will you? Will you choose me? I don't deserve it – I've hurt you in so many ways. Too many promises. _No more promises!_ And madness, I gave you to the madness and you didn't know me and I think dying would be easier than to see you look at me and yet _not __**know me!**_ **And I need you, Alice, **_**please!**_"

Tarrant leans back, the mercury-stained skin surrounding his eyes glistening like bloody scrapes beneath his messy tears.

"Choose _me_, not _him._"

Before he can start again, Alice captures his jaw in her hands and brushes her thumbs over his lips. "I do. I choose you. I choose _you, _Tarrant Hightopp. My Hatter. My Mad Hatter. I choose you."

A tremulous smile twitches his lips. His eyes, full of equal measures of anxiety and hope, mesmerize her. "Did you... Are you... The First Claw? Alice? Was that a nightmare, too?"

She shakes her head and puts his mind at ease, "I convinced him to release me. I'm yours now. Just yours."

"_Ngh!_" Tarrant wraps his arms around her and buries his face in her neck. Alice returns the unbreakable embrace and listens to his laughing sobs of relief. But long minutes later, when he lifts his head, he regards her with a worried expression.

"Alice...?"

"Yes?"

"Someday, not today, but someday, I might ask you... might... might ask... about the Blackness and if it... if I frightened you... but I..."

Alice combs her fingers through his shoulder-length hair. She replies, "And someday, I'll tell you that it frightened me in the most spectacularly thrilling way. And I'll cherish the memory of it forever."

And with that, she focuses on everything she feels for this passionate, caring, scarred, devoted madman. She thinks of their past and their future. She thinks of their passion and their friendship. She thinks of time spent in his arms and at his side with her knee pressed against his beneath a table set for afternoon tea. She thinks of everything they have been, everything they are, and everything they could be together...

And, consciously using the heart line for the first time, she then _wills_ all that she feels along the twisting blue mark from _her_ heart and into _his_.

This time, when Tarrant gasps, chokes on a sob, and clutches her tighter, she knows it's not in response to crushing fear or overwhelming relief, but in total surrender. For now, there is no dark corner of his mind Alice has not seen.

And she has never loved him more.

* * *

[End of Chapter 15]


	74. Book 2, A Raven and a Writing Desk, 1

_**Author's Note: **_This is the final chapter of Book 2. I'm posting it in 3 parts. There will also be an Epilogue, however. (^_~)

* * *

_**Chapter Sixteen: A Raven and a Writing Desk**_ [Scene 1 of 3]

"There. You look _stunning_, Mirana," Alice informs her, gently smoothing the shimmering skirt of the sarleh into place. Smiling, she continues, "I hope you're not expecting sweet nothings in your ear because, if I'm not mistaken, you're going to stun poor Dale speechless."

Mirana laughs, despite her obvious nerves... or, perhaps, because of them. "I... I..."

Alice pets the queen's lustrous, white hair. "How can you be nervous now when the hard part's over with?" Indeed the celebrations and the ceremony, the planning and the preparations, the dinners and the dancing, the tea and the toasts, the hors d'oeuvres and the Orashlach... Those things are all little more than memories now. The rosy light of sunset illuminates the queen's tower bedroom through the Queast-facing windows.

"I suppose I _am _nervous," Mirana admits. "On this night of all nights, I think I'm entitled, though. Even considering the Soul Bond."

Alice hesitates a moment before laying her arm across the queen's shoulders. "Would you... like some advice? From one who knows what it's like?"

"Yes, please!"

Feeling unaccountably shy and unsettled – how odd it seems to be giving _Mirana_ advice of the heart! – Alice gently wraps her arms around Mirana so that each might both hide their embarrassment from the other. "Expect pleasure," Alice whispers, recalling her own experience with Tarrant on their first night together. "And unless the Soul Bond allows you to read each other's minds, you're going to have to show him what you like, what you need. He'll be nervous, too, because he'll want to please you, but he won't be sure how. Be strong for him. Guide him. Don't let hesitance make this night anything less than it could be."

Alice steps back and, giving Mirana a comforting smile, says, "You've chosen to spend the rest of your life with him. Begin as you mean to go."

The queen returns Alice's smile and nods. "Thank you, Alice."

"It's the least I can do, Mirana." She collects her friend's hands and gives her arms a good shake, loosening the muscles. "Deep breath, now," she orders.

Mirana closes her eyes and obeys.

"Now imagine his smile, his eyes: what exact shade of gold are they when he smiles just for you?"

Alice continues prompting the queen's memories of her beloved until a soft knock sounds against the door. And when Mirana opens her eyes, Alice sees only lingering traces of her anxiety. Mostly, the woman looks... luminous. With one more reassuring squeeze to her hands, Alice turns and opens the door. She waits for Dale to enter and then bows herself out, careful not to intrude on any portion of the moment. Her feet carry her down the curving stairs to the tower parlor where Mally is waiting.

"You make that tunic into a very intimidating garment," Alice compliments her.

The dormouse grins and struts a bit. "I do, don't I? Never thought blue to be my color, but..."

"You suit it quite well," she finishes.

"Ha! You said it, Alice!" Mally heads over the small dinner table that had been set up beside the front door and climbs up the lace tablecloth.

With a smile, Alice continues, "Thank you for this, Mally. It means a lot to us..."

"Aw, go on with you!" the dormouse insists. "After this week, you an' the Hatter ought to get away for a bit."

"We'll be back tomorrow," Alice promises. "And, in the meantime..." She glances over Mally's head at the _other _guard assigned to watch over the new king and the queen on their wedding night. "_Try _not to impress Chessur too badly."

The cat grins. "I should very much like to see her try," he drawls.

Mally cackles. "Oh, there's not much that ol' Chess can do that I can't do better!" she replies.

"Oh? Have you suddenly developed evaporating skills?"

"When it comes to a pot of Throeston Blend, I certainly have!" She giggles.

Even Alice has to admit Mally has very _impressive _skills when it comes to tea consumption. "You most definitely do and someday I'll get you to tell me where you put it all."

Mally claps her paws together with glee. "After you and the Hatter get back, we'll sit down and work out a little bargain on that!"

"Oh, er, right," Alice manages and moves toward the door. "Now, play nice, you two, and get the king and queen whatever they need."

"We _know_, Alice," Chessur replies, rolling his great eyes.

"Nuthin' more dangerous than a pack of trump cards for tonight." Turning, she nearly hollers at him, "An' it won't be _my _fault if you give yourself a paper cut!"

Alice bites back a laugh as Chessur tries to block her from reaching the stack of cards with the end of his tail. "Not until we've settled on the rules!" he insists.

"What rules?" Mally retorts. "There's only one way to play a game of Snud-done Snitzer!"

"Good night!" Alice calls, letting herself out of the room and heading down to the base of the tower. She nods to the knight and bishop on either side of the main entrance and bids them a good evening as well. Passing by a balcony overlooking the courtyard, she hears the sounds of tents being dismantled and tables cleared. Alice sighs. She's _very_ happy to have an excuse to avoid the clean-up. Helping Marshing, Lakerton, and Pondish erect over a dozen voluminous white tents – who in their _right mind_ had decided to assign three _frogs _that task? – earlier that morning had been harder than her regular Champion's training!

She feels a smile pull at her lips as she recalls the surprisingly adept serenade Thackery had produced for the newlyweds – with the help of a bit of Orashlach, that is! The Tweedles had performed a rather spectacular tap dance duet – or so it had seemed to Alice. Perhaps it had actually been their own unique brand of Futterwhacken.

Futterwhacken. Yes, she'd timidly asked Tarrant if he wouldn't mind dancing for her again and Mally had been beside herself with joy. And Alice hadn't been unaffected, either.

_Must remember to ask Tarrant how that dance is even __**possible!**_

But, then again, he'd probably just chuckle, smile his gap-toothed grin and remind her in a soft lisp, "It's only impossible if you _believe _it is!"

Shaking her head, she heads downstairs to the hat workshop. She might have been excused from helping everyone clean up _outside_, but she knows her husband's workshop is still in shambles from the other day. And, as that's largely due to her, she feels it's only fair to ask him if she can help set it to rights.

Alice still can't believe he'd forgiven her for that inconceivably painful deception:

"What would have happened if you'd charged into that room and I'd flown into your arms?"

His eyes had flashed when she'd asked that question. "I wouldae _killed _th'creature!"

And she'd smiled then stroked his cheeks until the fire in his eyes had subsided. "Exactly," she'd said. "And I'd do it again to spare you from crossing that line, Hatter. _My _Hatter..."

His eyes had narrowed then. "D'nae say tha'Alice, I _cannae_... I _**shouldnae**_**...** I know I frightened ye in me workshop..."

"And if you apologize for it, it will break my heart."

His hands had reached for her, then had abruptly stopped and fisted. "What can I do, then, Alice?"

"Forgive me for hurting you? For making you believe I wasn't yours anymore?" She still hates herself for asking no matter how much she'd needed to hear the words, see the absolution in his mismatched eyes. She knows she'll never have the right to ask, but she couldn't _not._

He had shaken his head at her. "Ye never need teh ask me fer f'rgiveness, lass."

"Please?" She'd only mouthed the word, but he'd read it from her lips.

"Ye need this..." he'd murmured to himself and then he'd smiled; he'd given her that absolution through aqua-colored eyes. "I f'rgave ye the momen'ye opened tha'door."

Alice had goggled at him. "But... how did you know to forgive me just from that?"

Tarrant had finally reached out to her and had pulled her close. She'd listened to him sniff and nuzzle her hair, her ear, her temple...

"Alice... mine or no'ye ne'er would'ave come teh me in tha'moment w'thout th'intention o'_savin'_ me. An' I knew I still had a _chance_ teh'ave ye again..." His arms had tightened around her. "An' then I lost control teh th' Blackness... desperate, dangerous, overwhelmingly unforgivably—"

"_Raven_," Alice had commanded, kissing him. And, amazingly enough, that had been the end of it. Alice marvels at his capacity to forgive. (Although, considering the grudge-filled glances he's been exchanging with Chessur recently, perhaps she ought to admit that his generosity doesn't seem to extend to _everyone_.)

She wonders now how things will be here in the castle what with Leif remaining and her and Tarrant living here... Alice rubs her fingers over her forehead and sighs. Truly, she doesn't know what to do about _that _slithy tove's nest of bitter awkwardness, but she'll have to do _something_. Now that Dale is, in fact, _King_ Dale of Mamoreal, Leif will be his Champion once more, which means she'll be working with him, training with him, _relying _on him every day for the foreseeable future.

No doubt, Tarrant will not – is not? Has this occurred to him yet? – be happy about that. But she has confidence that they'll arrive at some sort of solution. She loves him too much to allow their home to be invaded by anger and resentment.

Mind obviously occupied, Alice doesn't realize she's arrived at the hat workshop until she's there, standing in the open doorway and gaping at the sight before her.

Leif.

Leif is standing in Tarrant's workroom.

And Tarrant...

Tarrant is clasping the lion's paw in...

Alice struggles to comprehend the scene, for that _can't _be a genuine smile curling Tarrant's lips. Nor can _that _be a look of relief on Leif's face...!

_What in the name of Underland is going on here?_

But the question never manages to make it past her lips. She watches as the two of them shake – hand and paw – firmly and without rancor. Then, with a respectful nod, Leif turns toward the door, obviously intending to take his leave, when they both spot Alice standing there. No doubt she very closely resembles a landed codfish.

"Alice!" Tarrant declares, delighted. Oddly, he doesn't move toward her.

Leif, however, does.

Despite her shock, she tenses. Her right hand moves to the pommel of her sword and Leif stops his advance immediately. Alice neglects to note that he'll have to get through her in order to actually leave – she's blocking the doorway, after all! – and glances from the lion's repentant expression to Tarrant's bright green eyes.

And then Tarrant gives her an imploring look and very deliberately nods in Leif's direction. She gawks at him over the lion's shoulder.

"Champion Alice," Leif murmurs in a reserved tone.

Alice gives herself a slight shake and returns her attention to him. "Yes?"

"I've come to apologize. Formally. For my error in judgment and my behavior. And, also," he continues, "to beg your endorsement."

She frowns in confusion.

"King Dale has asked me to resume my post as his Champion, but I will not do so without your – and your husband's – agreement."

Alice blinks. "I..." Unable to help herself, even though she can feel the warmth of Tarrant's support through the heart line, she glances over Leif's shoulder again and is struck breathless by the utterly charming smile of open confidence on her Hatter's face.

_Trust me_, he seems to say.

And because she does – without reservation – she lets his smile call forth her own. Turning back to Leif, she says, "We accept your apology and wish you all the best in your new post as Champion."

And she's silently surprised to realize that she means those words. She _does_ wish him the best. Because... because...

_Because I've missed my friend,_ she admits to her audience of one.

The lion releases a long breath. "Thank you, Champion Alice."

She nods and steps past him and into the room. As he moves toward the door, she hears herself say, "I'll see you on the pitch."

"After breakfast?" he asks, a friendly grin lighting his eyes.

"Yes, but not tomorrow. The day after. I've plans for tomorrow."

"Until then, Champion Alice."

"Champion Leif."

His grin is broad and exactly the way she remembers it. After he goes, Alice closes the door and – still stunned by what had just happened – she turns around slowly. When she looks up Tarrant is already there, standing before her with his arms open.

She steps into them on a bubble of laughter.

"What just happened here?" she asks into the locks of his long, wavy hair.

"Didn't you hear?" he replies jovially. "Leif apologized and asked for our permission to stay at Mamoreal."

Alice opens her mouth to correct him, then stops herself. Despite Leif merely asking for their permission to resume his post, Tarrant had of course looked _past _that to the truth of the matter: Leif had _really _been requesting their permission to _stay._ Of course, Tarrant had seen it. His specialty is the truth, after all. She sighs and feels incredibly lucky to have a man so gifted.

"And you accepted his apology and gave him your permission," she summarizes. "Why? Why did we do that?" For, really, the decision to do so hadn't been _hers _but _theirs._ And, honestly, it had been _mostly __**his**_ for she never would have forgiven Leif without Tarrant's full support.

"He told me why he did it," Tarrant replies softly. "Out of respect and love for a Champion. To keep you safe." He leans back until Alice finds her gaze captured in his. "I can hardly fault him for loving you, for doing whatever he must to keep you safe..." He brushes his thimbled and scraped fingers over her cheek. "I'd be the most intolerable sort of hypocrite to blame him for feeling the very things that _I_ _also_ feel for you, Alice."

The words are more than she'd ever expected to hear and yet they ring true. _So true_ that they resonate with something even deeper within her. A twinge of intuition:

_"Ye need this..." _he'd said when she'd asked for forgiveness and so he'd given it to her.

And when her fellow Champion and foolish friend had asked to be allowed to stay in Mamoreal, to be part of their lives, Tarrant had known that _this _is another thing that Alice – despite her pique and frustration and temper – would need...

Tarrant had _known _Alice would need this. Even before she had herself.

Her heart feels as if it's melting within her chest. Swallowing, Alice takes a moment to focus on the feeling and share it with Tarrant. When he inhales sharply, she knows it's worked.

"But you forgave him so easily..." she mutters when she finally can, hardly daring to believe that he could do – but he _had done!_ – something like this just for her.

Tarrant shakes his head, his irises fading into a deeper and deeper blue as he speaks. "'Twas nae easy, but I coul'see that' th'lad willnae come b'tween us again. He respects an' loves ye tae much."

Alice blinks, perplexed. "And that... doesn't concern you?"

He giggles. "Alice, how can ye no'see it? He _loves _a Champion. He's no'in _love with_ Alice."

She smiles. "Your Alice," she corrects him.

"Aye," he answers, his eyes closing in a expression of utter bliss. "My Alice."

His kiss is so sweet she thinks the very tenderness of it makes it taste of caramels and bergamot, but no, that's simply her memory of Tarrant's blood and their first tentative kiss. She sighs as his natural flavor mingles with those achingly sweet memories and it's only the lack of distracting passion that allows her to really experience the taste.

Yet, even as content as she is now, in this gentle moment, she shivers as thoughts of his overwhelming domination from just a few days ago rush to the forefront of her mind.

"What?" he whispers.

"I love kissing you," she replies, sighing again, "but I'll miss the way you were the other day."

Opening her eyes, she's a little surprised to see nothing more than a contemplative gleam in his ever-changing gaze.

"Yes?"

He shakes his head wonderingly. "You've just answered my question."

"Which was?"

"How you could have forgiven me for that... display, for scaring you..."

Alice traces the edge of his jaw with her fingertips. "There was never anything to forgive."

This time, when he kisses her, she doesn't taste caramel and bergamot. She tastes Tarrant. She tastes his strength.

She moans into his mouth as his tongue surges over hers. She's vaguely aware of something – the wall? – pressing against her back and shoulders, holding her up. His hands move to her hips and pull them tightly against his own. His lips leave hers and he proceeds to mark his way down her neck. Alice's hands flutter weakly at his shoulders, oddly indecisive. She feels that she _ought _to do a bit more, participate a bit more, but when she begins to gather her thoughts and the impetus to move, he suddenly collects both her wrists in his right hand and pins them against the wall above her head.

"None o'tha'nauw, Alice," he warns her gently.

The sudden heat his voice releases within her blood makes her shudder. His left hand reaches down and, grasping her under her knee, hooks her leg over his hip.

"_Hmmm...__**ngh**__!_" she hears herself moan as he presses against her, already so hard...

"Las' chance, Alice," he murmurs against her throat. She feels the tip of his tongue press against her pulse. "Tell me teh stop an' I will. I still can..."

Her breath shivers out of her. She closes her eyes, leans her head against the wall and gives in: "_More._"

And, with a hot glance from his now-violet eyes, he obliges.

* * *

[End of Chapter 16: Scene 1 of 3]


	75. Book 2, A Raven and a Writing Desk, 2

_**Chapter Sixteen: A Raven and a Writing Desk**_ [Scene 2 of 3]

It's well past nightfall when Alice manages to drag Tarrant away from the _new _mess they'd made in his workshop. She considers apologizing, but glancing at Tarrant's knowingly sexy look, decides against it.

"Where are you taking me, Alice?" he murmurs as she pulls him by the hand toward the armory.

Walking backwards, she smiles. "And ruin the surprise?"

His eyes widen and his smile brightens. This man had just had her at his mercy against a wall, had knelt at her feet and petted her with his tongue until she'd screamed, had taken her on a jumble of torn fabric meant for the bin, had handled and _possessed_ her in the most carnal sense, and yet she can't mistake the total innocence and boyish delight of his smile. He lisps, "You're going to surprise me, Alice?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Is it a good surprise?"

She hesitates. _Is it?_ "It's something you have to see for yourself," she hedges.

His right eye twitches, but the smile doesn't change. "Then I will follow wherever you lead."

Alice escorts him through the armory which is no longer full-to-bursting with weapons. The once-was-mercenaries had collected their things after vowing fealty to the queen two days ago. She doesn't linger here, however. She leads Tarrant down the hall lined with cabinets and racks of broadswords, spears, and bows, past the various suits of armor that mark the history of Mamoreal's Champions. She gently pulls him toward the exit at the other end, takes him down the stairs and pushes open the well-concealed side entrance of the White Castle.

Outside, dozing in the moonlight, the Bandersnatch twitches in response to the soft squeak of protest from the hinges.

"Sorry," Alice apologizes to the door's machinery. "I know it's late."

There's a bit of a grumble – incoherent with drowsiness – and then the door settles back into its seamless frame, blending in with the blocks of white granite once more.

"Grrr-grrl," the Bandersnatch grumbles.

Alice winces and scratches his ear. "We're late. I know."

Tarrant giggles and, when she glances over her shoulder at him, informs her, "I believe I'm beginning to acquire some of you bad habits, Raven."

With a saucy grin, she reaches up and caresses the brim of his hat, "Then maybe I should borrow a few of _yours_."

His eyes widen, narrow, and simmer. "Ask and give," he replies.

She raises her brows at him.

He explains, "You wanted to know the conditions I'd require were you to borrow my hat."

_"Ask and give."_ She can guess what question she'd have to ask and what he'd require her to give. Alice grits her teeth to keep from pushing him up against a cherry tree and ripping his waistcoat and shirt buttons off in her haste to...

Taking a deep breath, she collects herself. "I'll keep that in mind." She mounts the Bandersnatch before the creature can fall back asleep.

Tarrant takes her outstretched hand and swings himself up behind her. He wraps his arms around her waist and smiles against her neck. "Alice... you've made a rhyme."

"Have I?"

"As in 'mine'," he replies nonsensically.

Alice considers that as the Bandersnatch moves through the garden toward the main drive. "'Stipulations _twine_ and the hat will be mine; I'll keep that in mind?'" she tries, using the Outlandish word for the number two to build on his suggestion.

He sighs happily. "You've listened to the tea steeping before, haven't you?"

She laughs. "I have," she replies honestly, yet she's still delightfully confused.

"Shush and hush they brush, lest the best be rest, hiss and kiss, lips from cup sip," he whispers and Alice marvels at the sound – like the white noise of very hot water, like the susurrations of leaves brushing against each other, like steam issuing from the spout of a kettle, like the moment of silence during the first taste of tea.

She closes her eyes and leans back against him, utterly charmed. "Do you know another one?"

"Aye... The sigh in her eyes cannae decide the tide, for shall all abide then none fly, mark the _maigh_."

"Maigh?" Alice asks.

"May, Mayfair, the moment spring arrives in Underland and the clans gather."

She smiles. "Maigh... beautiful word."

"Outlandish has many beautiful words, _mogh'linyae _Alice."

"And a beautiful man who speaks it; lucky Outlandish."

He giggles and squeezes her. "_Another _rhyme!"

Alice laughs.

And then the Bandersnatch strolls through the main gate. All of Underland lies before them. "You know the way, Bandy," Alice says.

With a grunt, the creature takes off and Alice allows his galumphing stride to press her back against Tarrant's warmth. The rhythm of the Bandersnatch's stride makes it almost impossible to make more rhymes, so they travel through Tulgey Wood in relative silence. After some time, however, Tarrant muses, "This surprise, Alice?"

"Yes?"

"Is it a tea party at Thackery's windmill?"

"While that would be lovely on a night like tonight, no, it isn't."

She feels Tarrant's chin lift from her shoulder and she senses he's looking up through the boughs of the Tumtum trees to glimpse the full moon.

More minutes pass before he asks with reluctance, "This... is a _good _surprise, Alice?"

She slides her left hand beneath his, grasps it, raises it to her mouth and brushes a kiss over his heart line. He threads his fingers between hers, lowers his chin to her shoulder, and seems to contemplate their joined hands. She feels a twinge around her heart and knows he's guessed their destination. Her silence confirms it and she struggles for something to distract him from the memories of his past.

"You owe me one free answer to one of my questions," she reminds him, recalling the bargain they'd made at tea not long before the third exchange.

He startles a bit. "I do, don't I? And which question will you have me answer?"

Alice sifts through her options and, reluctantly, settles on one that she needs to know the answer to but will probably never bring herself to ask if she doesn't utter it now.

"What woke you every morning while I was in Shuchland?" she whispers.

His free arm tightens around her waist; their still-clasped hands press against her chest; his face turns toward her hair. She feels his lips against her temple and a breathed apology for waking her every morning during her absence. They rock and sway in time with Bandy's galloping stride until he's ready to answer. "The Nightmare," he replies finally.

"Tell me?"

He does. Alice listens to the horror he details and her hands tighten on his forearm and in his grasp. She listens and realizes he hadn't misspoken when he'd called it _The _Nightmare. It frightens her with its consistency, its epic terror, its eerie resemblance to reality.

"You know what it means, don't you?" he murmurs then clears his throat.

She replies, "I should resign from my post. Being Mirana's Champion... it's not fair to you. At any moment, for any reason, I could—"

"You _could_, but you won't," he interrupts decisively.

"Tarrant, I _promise—_"

"_No!_" he whispers harshly, pulling her roughly back against his chest. "No more promises, Alice. Too dangerous. So, so dangerous! _That _was what The Nightmare tried to tell me. 'Twasnae my sword tha'woul'kill ye, but yer promise teh me. Th' sword _is_ th' promise..."

Alice shivers. "All right. I won't promise." But she doesn't like that solution, either. Perhaps there's another way, another tactic they might employ to keep her safe and him sane... or, rather, sane _enough_ to wait for her, to trust her to return to him once her duties are done.

"Tell me about Causwick?" he barely breathes. She can feel him tense around her, waiting for her to refuse or ignore the request or pretend he'd never asked. She does none of those things. She tells him and he listens and, sometimes, he even shares his own tortures with her.

"I don't remember that time clearly," he admits when she hesitantly asks him what Stanye had done to him in the Red Queen's dungeon. "Except that I thought something was uproariously funny. I think it was Chess. He was there, you see, but he couldn't bring himself to watch. Even being invisible wasn't enough for him." She senses his frown. "It doesn't seem so amusing now... strange. Perhaps I've forgotten the joke..."

Chasing after the first thought to cross her mind that doesn't include manacles and chains and Tarrant in a dark and dingy cell with that _beast_, Alice blurts, "If a Champion could have a Champion, you'd be mine."

He seems to still at that. "You would... choose me to be the Alice's Champion?"

"Your Alice," she corrects him again and he sighs, relaxing.

"Aye, an' I look after wha's mine."

Alice says nothing in reply. Why bother when he speaks for her, too? Why bother when the events of this last week have shown quite clearly that Alice looks after what is _hers?_

They doze on the back of the Bandersnatch until he breaks rhythm and inelegantly lumbers to a halt. Exhausted from the trip and the preceding days of merriment, Alice slides down beside Tarrant. She has enough energy to dig out the bedroll and blanket from her satchel, spread them out and curl up beside him. His nose finds its way to her hair and his knee to the back of hers. She pulls his arm across her side and mumbles, "Writing desk..."

"Slightest idea, Raven" she hears just before sleep gently closes her mind to the wind and the trees and the grass and warm body of her husband lying beside her.

* * *

[End of Chapter 16: Scene 2 of 3]


	76. Book 2, A Raven and a Writing Desk, 3

_**Chapter Sixteen: A Raven and a Writing Desk**_ [Scene 3 of 3]

"This is impossible..."

The whisper wakes Alice. "Mmm," she replies, burrowing into a warm, Hatter-scented chest. "Only if you believe it is," she slurs sleepily.

"Alice... Are we... awake?"

"No," she groans, hiding her face in his armpit to block out the light. "Sleeping."

He giggles and twitches, which only serves to wake Alice further. But since she's enjoying his sounds of mirth, she nudges her nose against his inner arm, releasing another round of furious giggles. Sometimes she can't resist playing with his oversensitive skin.

"Ticklish!" he gasps.

"Say that in Outlandish," she mutters, burrowing again.

"_Merri'anglin'!_" he shouts between screaming giggles... or would they be gigglish screams? She always forgets the difference... "_Merri'anglin'! Merri'anglin'! Merri'anglin'!_"

Showing mercy, she rolls away and listens to him gasp for breath. When she dares to open her eyes to the soft glow of morning, the first thing she sees is a drowsy-looking Champion Flower nodding in her direction. Sitting up, Alice stares at the meadow spread out before her as the warming light of dawn illuminates it.

"Is this the surprise?" Tarrant asks a bit breathlessly from behind her.

She nods. Gentle, callused fingers touch her jaw and Alice looks away from the sea of sleepy blossoms amongst the bluest of green grass.

"Are we awake now?" Tarrant whispers and Alice isn't sure if he's serious or not. Perhaps he is and he isn't. Both at the same time. Within his fascinating mind, _any_ given contradiction could exist at any given time.

"Yes. We are." To prove it to him, she kisses him on the underside of his chin.

He sighs. "Alice, I'd like to answer another of your questions now."

Leaning back, Alice opens her mouth but he presses a finger against her lips and shakes his head. "I shall answer and you shall ask the question."

Her lips purse and she kisses his fingertip before agreeing, "All right."

Smiling, Tarrant pulls her into his lap. With his arms around her waist and his chin once more resting on her shoulder, he says, "Iplam has never looked quite like this before, you know. Even when I was just a wee lad no higher than me Fa's knee." He sighs. "It's better now. New again. When I'd known it, it had been a bit worn about the edges, a bit frayed but still in good repair. The Hightopps always kept it so. We keep all our things in good working order... except for my pocket watch, of course, but, well, you can't very well expect a hatter to know much about the inner workings of Time, now can you?"

Alice shakes her head.

"I remember two occasions," he continues, "when the Hightopps hosted the Maigh_._"

"The gathering of the clans?"

"Aye. Th'first, I was still jus' a lad." He clears his throat and when he speaks again Alice knows he's pushed away the deeper emotions that had brought out his Outlandish accent. "My Fa wanted me to try my hand at the cobbler's craft."

Alice struggles to imagine a version of Tarrant Hightopp who makes shoes instead of hats.

"Cobblers don't lose their heads as hatters do," he says. "True, they often lose their feet, but with a bit of searching, they manage to find themselves again."

She smiles at the image.

"And when the Master Cobbler asked me to go back to his home in Galandonland and work for him, I... well, I refused. Absolutely. Embarrassed myself a bit, actually. Was rather upset with my Fa over it, too. He'd approached the cobbler first, you see. On my behalf. That's how those things are done."

He shifts. "Were done? Was done? Would be? In any case, I refused and told my Fa I wanted to be a hatter and if he wouldn't teach me, I'd run away to be a juggler."

Alice snorts, imagining Tarrant as a boy giving his father the what-for and making his own path.

"I refused to go to the other Clan Gatherings." He tilts his head to the side. "In all truth, it wasn't necessary for me to. I was an apprentice to my Fa, busy learning the trade. And happily, too. What would I do with another? I simply hadn't had Time in those days...

"So, much later, when he'd retired from his post at Mamoreal and I'd taken his place and the hatter's madness began to come upon me... Yes, suddenly, it was very important for me to think about the next Clan Gathering. My Fa had already sent word that the Hightopps would host it again, that he had a son, a hatter, who would need a... a wife for the Thrice a-Vow."

Alice feels his chest expand against her back as he takes a deep breath. "I was... quite _not _happy, to tell you the truth. Furious, actually. Beyond furious. _Bey-urious!_ Of course, I _knew _I'd have to... to... well, it would have to be done soon or I wouldn't be fit to be _anyone's _husband. Ever and forever and more.

"If I'd agreed to go to other Clan Gatherings, I might have met a lass who was agreeable to becoming a Hightopp, but I hadn't gone, so I hadn't met anyone and then suddenly, there I was, a grown man in need of a wife. And my Fa had taken it upon himself to _summon _one for me. Host the Maigh..."

He shakes his head. "I couldn't refuse to go, but _oh_ I was in a mood _most _foul. The queen chose to accompany me, to meet with the other clans while the opportunity presented itself, and my humiliation was complete: my employer – the queen – would see me, a court-employed hatter, being bartered over by clansmen fathers with eligible daughters.

"I stood there and smiled my most mad-some grin and, with my thoughts, damned them all... and then the Jabberwock came..."

Alice gently strokes his hands and waits.

"The Jabberwock slew them. The daughters, the fathers, _my _Fa... Alice?"

"Yes?"

"Do you think some thoughts – some very _bad _thoughts – can become real?"

"**No**," she answers immediately, absolutely.

He presses a kiss to her cheek. Drawing another breath, he continues, "The White Queen was banished to Mamoreal. I joined the Resistance against the Bluddy Behg Hid. Time passed. I stopped making hats and started making war. The madness... became madder. It was too late for me, then. There would never be a lass in all of Underland willing to accept _this_ poisoned, mad heart and the mind and the man along with it."

Tarrant rubs his cheek against her hair. "And then you dreamed me, a half-mad hatter. But you were already half-mad yourself having dreamed me in the first place. I hadn't been able to bear the thought of you waking up... Sometimes I still think you might. Your dreams are frightful sometimes, Alice, but there is such beauty in them it makes my stomach ache to think it could all end..."

"It won't end," she tells him. "I'm not going to wake up."

They sit on the bedroll at the edge of the field and watch the flowers stretch upward toward the morning sun. Just when Alice is starting to think about reaching for her satchel and pulling out the provisions she'd packed for breakfast, Tarrant asks:

"Have you found your question yet?"

Alice considers all that he'd said. Before she can allow doubt to interfere with the idea forming in response, she says, "The question you answered... was the one I most wanted the answer to."

"Hm," he replies on a breathy chuckle. "The end." With the conclusion of his story, Tarrant reaches for and balances her fingertips on top of his own. She senses then that his mood has suddenly turned pensive. She waits.

Eventually, he wonders aloud, "Have you truly forgiven me, Alice?"

"There was never anything for me to forgive," she replies.

"The madness... the Blackness...?"

She turns in his arms and meets his worried gaze. "Is not a shameful thing, Hatter. It is a part of you. I only ask that you never hide it from me."

He traces the bridge of her nose with one finger, smiling. "Perhaps I shall never have to. And perhaps you will never again see it. I feel... healed, Alice."

She wraps her arms around his shoulders. "These fields have that effect on people."

He shakes his head very slowly. "Nae... 'tis you. Ye've healed me, Alice."

Alice presses her forehead against his shoulder and, when she feels too overwhelmed by her emotions to bear them alone, she shares them with him.

"Hatter?" she asks when she's sure she can manage the words and he can manage to hear them.

"Aye?"

She whispers, "Tell me another rhyme?"

He giggles, clears his throat and says, "Me greatest dream, yer husband teh be; choose me?"

_Iambic pentameter, _she thinks in the instant before the meaning catches up to her. Alice feels her heart perform an odd little skip-jump-hiccup when it does. She leans back, startled, and sees a small silver flower held aloft between his thumb and forefinger. The charm looks familiar, _very _familiar...

Studying it, she realizes it's not just a silver flower with a blue crystal set in its center, but it's a ring. Thin bands of silver had been coiled and soldered together beneath it to form the band itself.

"It's a ring," she blurts.

"... aye..."

"It's..." She frowns at it, struggling to remember _where _she's seen it before. "It's..."

And then her gaze flies up to his top hat and she counts the pins. _One, two, three, four... Only four!_

The fifth one is missing. Well, actually, it hadn't been the _fifth _one, but the _third._ The silver daisy that had always dipped and bobbed with his movements flanked by two other hatpins on either side. Yes, that little silver daisy hatpin is missing... Or rather, not _missing_ but removed, re-formed, remade.

She blinks at the ring still held between his fingers. "You made this from your hatpin?"

"... aye..."

"Tarrant..."

"It's not much, I know. I know I haven't much to offer you, Alice. _The _Alice. My... my... maybe it's not... that is... _bad idea!_ I'm sor—"

Alice presses a hand over his mouth. She wraps the fingers of her other hand around his, stopping him from closing his hand around the silver ring. His eyes, a frantic yellow-green, flicker between her, the hatpin ring, and the hand over his lips and back again.

"Tell me the rhyme again?" she asks, slowly removing her hand.

He blinks.

She prompts, "Iambic pentameter?"

He takes a deep breath and rasps nervously, "My greatest dream, your husband to be; choose me?"

"I choose you," she answers immediately, as she _should have done the __**first time**_ _**he'd asked!**_

"You... do?"

"Yes."

"Choose... me?"

"Yes."

He frowns slightly and seems compelled to confirm once more, "Alice, you are choosing me to be your husband?"

"Yes."

His lips begin to curve upward in a hesitant smile. "Then... _may_ I be your husband, Alice?"

"Tarrant," she replies, cradling his face in her hands as she'd done years ago in the Red Queen's makeshift hat workshop. "You already are." Perhaps he had been even that far back...

His grin is so wide and his eyes so jovial he seems nearly mad with happiness. Apparently unable to speak through his elation, he silently removes Alice's left hand from his cheek and reverently slides the hatpin ring onto her heart-line finger. Alice knows she shouldn't be surprised that it fits so well. If he knows her well enough to realize her broken friendship with Leif had – and would continue to – hurt her very badly, it's a small matter to check the size of her finger.

All of these small things he does for her... and all of the monumentally thoughtful things he does for her... awes her. If only he would accept one more promise, for she _would _promise – and quite happily! – to be with him until the end of their days!

And then Alice realizes there _is _something she can offer him in place of a vow, a promise, or an oath.

"Tarrant?"

He looks up from admiring the silver flower on her hand.

She smiles, bites her lip, chokes back her nervousness, and whispers, "May I be your wife?"

The sensations that break through his control and flood her heart steal her breath. There's so _much_ surrounding her, churning within her...!

_How can he breathe around this?_

"Alice," he manages in an uneven, rasping voice. "I believe... I believe you always have been... my Alice."

Then he's gasping at her own heart line message and their arms tighten around each other and they're panting breathless kisses against each other's lips. And perhaps the swaying flowers and budding trees object, but Alice doesn't think they do.

"_Maigh..._" she thinks she hears the sunshine-warmed flowers whisper.

Yes, she agrees. The opening of spring. For this is, she realizes, the springtime of their life together. They'd made it through the doubt and the fear of the long winter and had somehow never lost each other in the storms.

The occasion deserves more, Alice decides, sliding her hands beneath his shirt. If Tarrant won't risk a promise, perhaps... yes, perhaps a _decision..._

Leaning in toward his neck, she nuzzles behind his ear, waits for him to shiver as he always does when she breathes just _so_, just _there._

"I choose _us_."

He shudders again. "Us," he replies. "A raven..."

"... and a writing desk."

* * *

[End of Chapter 16]

* * *

Note: As I was working on Book 5, I noticed an inconsitency, so I edited two sentences in this chapter. Originally, Tarrant tells Alice about his past and his role in the Resistence: "Years passed. I made hats." That has been changed to: "Time passed. I stopped making hats and started making war." Updated on December 23, 2010


	77. Book 2, Epilogue

_**Epilogue**_ [Scene 1 of 1]

Wednesday mornings are one of his favorite times of the week. (Not counting the Alice times, of course, like early mornings and afternoon tea and dinnertime and late evenings and the delightfully sensual occasions that follow afterwards! Although, Wednesday mornings are _nearly _as enjoyable, if for vastly different reasons. Still, just because the reason is different does not make it any _less _of a reason at all. No, not... yes, still a good... very much so. Exactly!)

The kitchen is full to bursting with noise. Very enjoyable noise. Surprisingly enjoyable noise considering the fact that Tarrant normally complains of crowded places and such... well, unless there's the opportunity to Futterwhacken, for Alice always and unfailingly requests to see the dance. And even though it makes him feel like a bit of a twiterpated Dodo showing off for his mate, Alice never withholds the smile of pure satisfaction and delight which is – in his opinion – the epitome of all conceivable rewards. Well, with the exception of perhaps...

Tarrant shakes himself briefly and does his best not to think about... about... _hm, yes, very wonderful Alice times..._

_Futterwhacken!_ He reminds himself sternly.

And although Tarrant is quite enjoying himself, now is not the time for a bit of Futterwhacken. No, not now. Perhaps in a few years the queen might permit him... Yes, perhaps then... But no, not at the present time. At the present time, the twin girls currently flinging spoonfuls of Upelkuchen batter at each other are still a bit young to be thinking about Futterwhackening.

"_Alicibeth, Tarranya..._ what I have I told you about looking after magical substances?" the queen asks in a gently chiding tone.

Alicibeth replies dutifully – just as a perfect Princess of the White Realm would! "Magical things have a mind of their own. Don't let them wander off."

Tarranya sticks her tongue out at her twin sister's perfect answer.

"Precisely," Mirana replies, bending carefully – mindful of her swollen belly – and attempts to coax Thackery out from under the long table.

"The crisis is over, Thackery," the queen urges. "Come out now."

"No! No! No! No' lookin', Yer Majesty! No'til th' Upelkuchen faeries arrive an' clean i'tall up!" the hare insists.

Sighing, Mirana abandons Thackery to his pot of tea, assortment of yet-to-be-broken teacups and plate of crumpets. Unwrapping one arm from around the warm, wiggling weight against his chest, Tarrant pours the queen a fresh cup of tea and slides the plate of tomato sandwiches in her direction.

"Jam?" he asks solicitously.

"Hm. Thrambleberry, please," she replies, accepts the jar, then drops a dollop onto a tomato sandwich.

He giggles. Watching the queen eat through a very creative combination of foodstuffs is also quite amusing. And yet another reason why he enjoys Wednesday mornings so much!

After consuming the condiment-adorned sandwich, Mirana dabs her mouth with a snowy white napkin and holds out her arms in his direction. "Thank you, Tarrant. I can take Thacie now."

"It's no trouble! Trouble, trouble, 'twon't be double!" he sing-songs at the baby girl. He wiggles his rather distinctive eyebrows and the infant chortles and waves her arms toward his vibrant hair.

He feels his hat shift at a rather decisive tug on the sash dangling down his back. Turning, he grins at the toddler who only has eyes for the swaying length of fabric. "Hat! Hat!" she exclaims.

"Hello, there, Princess Amallya. You'd like a hat?" he inquires. "Or would that be a hat-hat? As in two hats? For two different days of the week or would you like them stackable? A stacking hat? Stack, hack, sack, sat?" He reaches out and tickles her chin and neck with his bandaged fingers.

She squeals and races pell-mell over to her mother and hides behind the queen's voluminous, shimmering skirt. The queen pets her daughter's hair. In Tarrant's arms, Thacie begins to fuss so he dips his un-bandaged and non-scratched pinkie into the small pitcher of cream before easing it into the baby's mouth.

"Hatter," the queen says. When he looks up, he can't help but smile in reply to her gentle, relieved grin. "You are a miracle," she informs him.

He giggles. "That's the second contradictory statement you've made today, Your Majesty. I can't be a hatter _and _a miracle, both."

"Oh, I don't know..." she muses with a thoughtful expression. "Alice might provide quite a bit of evidence to the contrary."

Tarrant grins, delighted and amused at the idea.

"What was my first contradictory statement today?" she presses, lifting Amallya up into her lap when the girl begins to climb up the queen's knees.

He feels himself frown at the now-dozing infant. He wants to be happy. He wants to giggle and make rhymes and play peek-a-boo with the queen's children, but the thought he's experiencing is far too much for him to fit both it and frivolity in his head at the same time.

He says tentatively, "That I'm a good father."

"And how is that contradictory?"

"I'm _not_ a father. Won't be... Can't be..." _Shouldn't be? Alice has never asked me to be..._

The queen sighs, visibly upset with... something. "It was simply a remark on your enduring patience and caring nature, Tarrant. Don't let me upset you."

"Yes, Your Majesty." Somehow, he finds his smile again. And just in time for the frontal assault he receives from a suddenly not-so-shy Princess Amallya.

"Och! Ye've caught me!" he burrs in a dramatic whisper.

She ducks under the bench and Tarrant waits for what he knows must be coming and... _there! _Another tug on his top hat's dangling sash. He's about to remind her that his hat is _much _too large for an Amallya head and she'll tumble into it and get lost if she keeps this up when, suddenly, the hat is not pulled but _lifted _from his head.

Looking up, he grins. Alice smiles back then leans down to press a kiss to his cheek. "Having fun?" she asks.

"Always!" he declares, squashing the twinge of disappointment when he realizes he hadn't even heard the door open or his wife's footsteps. His gaze drops to the hat Alice holds in her hands. He watches as her fingertips brush over the fabric in little unconscious motions. "Are ye goin'teh keep it safe f'r me?" he asks her.

"I suppose I ought to," she answers, sitting down next to him. "That's what I do."

And finally his giggle finds him, too. "A Champion of hats!"

"Just one hat," she amends.

He watches as she lifts it and aligns it with her head.

"Ask an' give!" he reminds her.

Alice merely smiles and places his top hat on her head.

Tarrant feels his heart skip a beat. He's pretty sure it's from Delight, but there's also Possession and a good deal of Anticipation thrown in.

"Alice?" the queen gently interjects.

"Hm?"

Mirana clears her throat. "About that discussion we had a... while ago?"

Alice frowns, blinks, and then – oddly enough – looks abashed. "Er, what about it?"

"I thought you were intending to..."

"Ah, right, well. I thought I'd just wait a bit and see what the Oraculum had to say about it."

The queen sighs, sounding vaguely exasperated. "Alice, I've promised to tell you if either Absolem or I have found any indication of... future unfortunate events."

"I... I know. I'm just..." She huffs out a sigh. "Sorry."

"Hm," the queen says. That and no more. She glances down at Thackery and Amallya's tea party under the table before standing and wandering over to the stove. "Time to put them to bed in their pans, dears," Mirana instructs her daughters after inspecting the contents of their mixing bowls.

"Alice?" Tarrant whispers.

She turns and focuses her attention on him. "Yes?"

"Why were you consulting the Oraculum?" His arms tense but do not tighten as he considers the possibility of another battle, or worse – Alice departing for Upland. Surely, she must miss her world at times! Perhaps he could go with her... Yes, it's true the thought of Up There is a terrifying one, but he much prefers it to letting her leave him behind again!

Baby Thacie whimpers and Alice reaches out to smooth the little girl's feather-soft hair. "Everything's fine," she assures him. "I suppose I'm just worried about the future. Life has been so peaceful and perfect and..."

"Yes," he agrees. Their life _has _been peaceful and perfect – as well as passionate and playful and, in addition, he believes it will continue to be promising! – and he still awakens in the morning and marvels at the fact that his Alice is with him, that she has allowed him to stay beside her all these years! He thinks about those years, years he'd thought he'd forfeited to the Blackness. How had Alice managed to not only _forgive _him for scaring her so badly, but _love _him for it?

His wife boggles his mind.

_Yes, my Alice has quite the talent for that, _he admits.

The kitchen door swings open and the king enters. Having just put the Upelkuchen in the oven, Alicibeth races over to him with a squeal of "Papu!" Dale picks her up and swings her about as if she weighs no more than a Thrambleberry branch.

"Are we almost ready for luncheon?" he asks.

"Hungry day in court?" the queen replies, lifting her face for a kiss.

Dale rumbles a chuckle. "Dispute over the location of the new Orash orchards by Salazen Grum. You know how much I miss..."

"Quite," she replies with a wide grin as his empty stomach gurgles loud enough for everyone to hear. Tarranya giggles and pokes his belly with a finger.

Mirana observes, "Just thinking about Shuchish food makes your stomach rumble! Lunch will be served as soon as Leif brings—"

"We're here!"

Leif strides into the room with a squirming boy slung over his shoulder.

"Sorry to keep you waiting, Your Majesties, but a certain _someone _was having trouble finding his _ears _while washing up!"

"My ears're ticklish!" the boy whines as Leif sets him down.

With a gleam in his eye, Leif replies, "I'm sure the Hatter has a handkerchief I can borrow so I scrub them a bit more. I think you missed a spot right..." He leans down to point it out.

The young prince claps his hands over his ears and dashes behind his elder sister, Tarranya. "There, there, Chestor. I won't let him wash you."

Alice snorts into her teacup.

"I take it he was as enthusiastic in his fencing lessons as ever?" Dale muses in a dry tone.

"How a boy can get dirty from just _whining_ I'll never know," Leif grumbles and the king laughs.

"Leif, will you be joining us for luncheon?" the queen asks. She reaches out to Tarrant again and he reluctantly hands over Thacie. Already his arms feel empty, airy, listless...

_They wouldn't be if..._

No, no! _This _mad hatter is _not_ thinking it!

_But you've never asked Alice if..._

Still not thinking it!

_Maybe she wants to but thinks you..._

La-la la la!

"Yes!"

Tarrant blinks at Tarranya's declaration. He looks up and notices both of her small hands are clutching Leif's larger one, a delighted smile on her face that leaves no room for refusal.

"I want you to sit next to _me_. I'm hungry! What's for lunch? Are we eating outside? Are we having Upelkuchen for dessert? How big will I get if I eat _this _much?" she rambles, gesticulating with one hand.

With a bemused grin, Leif allows the princess to haul him over to her parents and siblings. Mirana invites Alice and Tarrant, but Alice waves them off. Enjoying the flunderwhapped expression on the furry face of the King's Champion, Tarrant chortles and forgets about the emptiness of his arms momentarily.

"What?" Alice murmurs at him, mindful of their audience: Thackery had come out of hiding now that the royal family has gone and is in the midst of counting the Upelkuchen splatters on the cupboard doors... backwards... even numbers first.

Tarrant turns toward her and gently traces the side of her face with his fingertips. He remembers seeing her for the first time, a precocious and incorrigibly curious girl of six for whom he'd poured tea and rhymed riddles. He recalls watching her approach Thackery's tea table for the second time, even smaller than she'd been at six, but undeniably grown up. In that moment of giddy relief and exaltation, he very nearly hadn't noticed something Very Important...

"Tarranya has a Leif," he replies, smiling.

Alice raises a brow, which disappears beneath the brim of his hat. "Does she? And what does that mean for Leif?"

Giggling, Tarrant collects Alice's left hand, deliberately brushing his fingers over the silver flower she still wears.

"No..." Alice replies, shocked and amused and a dozen other things he can easily identify because of each and every day she's given him, each and every day she's _chosen _him.

"Oh, most definitely _yes_," he argues.

Her eyes narrow. "And how would you know that?"

"Hm," he muses. "Perhaps I've had a similar experience."

Alice gapes at him, which he enjoys _immensely_. "I was _six years old!_"

He smiles. "A truly magical age, it seems," he agrees, thinking of the crown princesses' recent birthday. "Yes, you were merely a child, but even then, I was utterly yours for the having, my Alice." He lifts her hand to his mouth and breathes against her heart line. "I'm so _very_ happy you decided to grow up, Alice. You _could _have kept me waiting a lot longer, you know."

Smiling, she shakes her head. "No, I don't think I could have."

Completely overjoyed to be sitting next to his Alice, who is all grown up and the right, proper size and who loves him and is wearing his hat and displaying his ring on her finger and showing his mark on her skin, Tarrant leans forward, ducks beneath the brim of his hat, and kisses her.

"Och! None o' tha'nauw!" Thackery scolds them and Tarrant is hit in the chest with a soggy crumpet. "This room's f'r _eatin'_ no'_sweetin'!_ Ge'off wi'ye!"

Laughing breathlessly, Alice pulls him up from the bench and – still holding his hand – leads him back to their apartment. Smiling, he gladly allows his wife to seat him at their dinner table and then giggles when she seats _herself_ on his lap.

Oh, he _loves _it when she does this! In fact, he'd be hard-pressed to say which he loves more... watching her perform the Shuchish dance she'd learned so long ago while wearing that incomparably _delightful _garment she'd brought back with her _or _having her sitting here, across his thighs, touching his face, kissing his jaw and whispering in his ear...

Oh! Yes, whispering!

Tarrant makes an effort to focus on what she's saying.

"... the queen alluded to earlier. Checking the Oraculum. There _was_... or, there _is _a reason..."

"A reason, Raven?" he asks, smoothing his palm up the outside of her thigh to her hip.

"Yes." Alice leans back and, regarding him with a grin that shows him quite clearly that his wife is oddly nervous _and _looking forward to something with _great _anticipation... all at the same time, she says, "I've reacquainted myself with the Underlandian childbearing rites between partners of differing origins and... I was wondering what your thoughts were on starting a family?"

There is no clock in their rooms, so – at the moment – there is only perfect silence. Silence, and Alice's _very _amused smile.

"Alice... is this...? Am I...? Are you...? Dream?"

"No," she says. "I'm not dreaming and neither are you."

"And... did you just...? That is, did you just ask...? A family, Alice?"

"Yes, I did."

He stares into her dark eyes, lit with amusement but warm with promise and hope and a bit of nervousness thrown in. And _then_ Tarrant realizes he truly _hadn't _just dreamed those words. And when he does, he remembers to breathe. And then close his mouth. And then tighten his arms around Alice. And then...

... and then...

... and then he's laughing. Great bellows of laughter echo in the room and he hears his own voice shouting, "Writing desk! _Writing desk! Writing desk! __**Writing—!**_"

And then Alice is kissing him and he's kissing her back and he can't contain himself for the joy and he's going to _be a father!_ A wee lad or lass's Fa...! Maybe not today...

No, no, of course not today!

Nor tomorrow, but he _will_ be! And Alice will be _both_ his wife _and_ the mother of his child and she will be... _They _will be...! And _their life_ will be...!

_Together._

_Perfect._

_Everything._

"Alice..." he gasps into her mouth, wondering how this day – this _life _– could be any better.

And that's when he notices something _else _that's Very Important:

"Alice," he murmurs, his voice deepening, his blood racing, his temperature climbing. "Ye're still wearin' m'hat..."

She smiles that most secretest of secret smiles – the one only Tarrant has ever seen – and replies, "I am, aren't I?" And then she Asks: "What do you think ought to be done about it?"

And so he Gives her his answer.

And everything is... perfect. Together.

*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*

**Authors Note:** I'd like to thank everyone who left comments for me! I ADORE comments and feedback and it seriously MAKES MY DAY! So, Thank You, you wonderful reviewers, you!

And now, the Question you all want to know the answer to: _**Will there be a third book...?**_

And the Answer: **Yes**. As before, I will post it (ALL OF IT) on my homepage FIRST and then do small daily (or every-other-day) updates here on Fanfiction dot net. If you'd like to read Book 3 on my homepage, please visit my very non-cluttered profile/bio for the link. Thanks and fairfarren!


	78. Book 3, Life in Mamoreal, 1 of 2

_The following is a work of fan fiction. NO profit or compensation was provided in exchange. NO copyright infringement is intended._

_**One Promise Kept: Book 3**_  
a fan fiction by Manniness  
_Alice in Wonderland (2010 film version)_

**Summary:** Three months pregnant with her and Tarrant's child, Alice is called upon to be the Champion for _all_ of Underland. However, _this _time, Alice won't be meeting _this_ challenge alone.

**Rated: M** for Violence, Character Death, Sexual Situations (non-explicit), Mature Language, Angst

**Status:** Finished! [From September 1, 2010, the unabridged version will be available on my homepage – please see my bio for the link, but PLEASE NOTE THE RATING and WARNINGS! The version I will post here will be rated M, in compliance with this site's policies.]

* * *

**Warning:**** This scene contains sensuality and nudity.  
[Rated M]  
**  


_**Chapter One: Life in Mamoreal**_ [Scene 1 of 2]

"_Hmmmgh_," Alice sighs, stretches, and sniffs.

The scent of morning reaches her an instant before a rather curious series of sensations does. Scratched and callused skin – warm and familiar – caresses her right knee. Soft strands of hair – no doubt long, richly hued, wavy and disarrayed – brush against her thighs. Lips press sensually against her kneecap.

"Tarrant?" she murmurs, finally opening her eyes.

"Hm?" He licks daintily at a small indentation before pressing a sucking kiss upon the very spot.

"What...? My knees?" she asks, befuddled, as his thumb begins brushing over her _left _knee.

"Aye, yer knees're ver'special," he informs her and the soft burr makes her body tingle. "One o'yer mos'expressive features..."

"How's that?" she manages, struggling to follow his thoughts. It's far too soon after waking and far too long before her first cup of tea for Alice to be able to find her way _out _of Sleep and _into_ his Mind.

He nuzzles her right knee and explains, his lips brushing against her skin. "Whene'er ye fight in earnest, ye bruise... Here..." he continues, placing a butterfly kiss against the jut of a bone. "An' here..." Another location, another kiss. "An' here..."

Realizing that this could go on for a very Long Time, indeed, Alice reaches down and tugs on a lock of her husband's long hair.

He giggles, coming back to his original thought and concludes, "Yer knees tell me when ye're safe, when ye're home, when ye're mine."

"I'm always yours," she reminds him, curling the strands of soft, auburn hair around her finger. Once, this hair had been much shorter, wilder, brighter... but the years since that time have lengthened it past his shoulders, tamed it with the help of her fingers and the occasional leather cord, darkened it with the slow release of the mercury his body had hoarded for so long.

He looks up and grins. "Bu'yer knees tell me tha' – at th' moment – ye are'nae a _Champion_ an' tha'means ye're _Mine_."

Alice smiles at the significant capitalization she hears in his tone. After a moment, his grin fades and he reapplies his mouth to her bare knee. Slowly, he kisses his way up until he's brushing his lips over the flesh between her hipbones. Her heart stumbles a bit and sputters as he closes his eyes, cradles her hips in his hands, and smoothes his cheek over her lower belly.

"I worry, Alice," he says simply.

She pushes his hair back over his shoulder so she can see his eyelashes where they lie against his cheekbones, the line of his nose, the curve of his lips. She marvels at the color that has come back to his skin since she'd rejoined the tea party that Griblig Day ten years ago. He's still pale – he'll always be pale – but the mercury stains have faded with his growing happiness and the unnatural pallor has been conquered by contentment.

She worries, too. She worries that these concerns he bears will change him again, hurt him again. Starve him into mercury-marked deathly whiteness again.

"Everything's fine," she replies, petting his hair to keep it from obscuring her view of his beloved and unpredictable expressions.

Tarrant lifts his head and concentrates _very deliberately _on kissing a meandering path from one hipbone to the other. Each and every gentle touch feels like the ghost of a worry against her skin. Not for the first time, Alice wonders if she and Tarrant are really ready for this – this unstoppable adventure.

_We've still over six months to become accustomed to it... _she reminds herself. And then she wonders, yet _again_, if the child will be a girl or a boy.

"We ought to think of names," she says when he softly presses his forehead against her and takes a deep breath against her skin.

"Wha' d'ye think th'littlin' wou'like?"

Alice contemplates that, slowly tangling and untangling his hair around her fingers. "Your father's name was Eaim and mine was Charles. How about one of those... if it's a boy?"

"As much as I wou'like teh," he murmurs, "'tis th'worst luck teh name a littlin' fer sommun who's passed."

"Oh... Well, then I'm out of ideas for boys."

Tarrant nuzzles her stomach again.

"What about girls' names?" she muses, in no hurry to rush out of bed and into another day despite her responsibilities and the tasks awaiting both of them. "Mirana has named her eldest girls for us... and we might not be here, like this, if not for her..." Alice recalls that terrifying moment aboard the sinking ship: Tarrant reaching for her through the looking glass in the queen's office and the bottle of Pishsalver being offered by the White Queen's hand... "Should we...?"

He sighs, looks up, and smiles. "I d'nae mind, if tha's wha'ye'd like."

Endeared and frustrated, Alice replies, "You have no opinion on this at all?"

"I do," he answers, his smile changing into one that makes Alice's heart beat faster. "I'd prefer ye teh think on it... _later_."

"Oh?" she replies playfully. "And what ought I be thinking of now?"

Pushing himself up, Tarrant crawls up her body, caging her on the bed with his limbs. He brushes his cheek, jaw, then chin over her nipple. Then, drawing an invisible line with the tip of his nose up to her ear, he whispers, "_Us._"

Alice smoothes her palms up his chest and turns her head toward him for a kiss. She has no trouble whatsoever granting his request. After all, over the years, she's had quite a lot of practice at it. And, if she does say so herself, she's quite the expert by now!

"_Us_," she agrees and allows herself to contemplate only that single word.

* * *

[End of Chapter 1: Scene 1 of 2]


	79. Book 3, Life in Mamoreal, 2 of 2

**Warning:**** This scene contains sensuality.  
[Rated M]**

******

* * *

__**

_**Chapter One: Life in Mamoreal**_ [Scene 2 of 2]

"Miss Alicibeth, if you don't pick up your feet, you'll be picking _yourself_ up off the ground," Alice says for perhaps the dozenth time today.

The princess pouts. "But I don't _want _to fight."

Alice bites back an exasperated sigh.

"I do!" Alicibeth's twin sister asserts. "Is it my turn, Alice?"

"Not yet, Tarra," Alice replies firmly. "And you've ten more repetitions to finish."

"I didn't forget!" Tarra replies, lifting her short, wooden sword and practicing the block-block-lunge-turn-thrust! maneuver Alice had shown her. As usual, it had only taken Tarra two demonstrations to grasp the basic movements. Her sister, on the other hand...

"I wanna go talk to the roses!" Alicibeth whines.

_Dear Fates, she __**is**__ her mother's daughter._

"No," Alice tells her. Firmly. "This is important. Now, once more..." Alice narrates the movements and demonstrates with her own wooden sword, following Alicibeth's reluctant movements like the Jubjub bird intent on its prey.

_Please, _she begs whomever or whatever may be listening. _Please do not let our child follow __**this**__ example._

Alicibeth suffers and whines through her exercises – correctly! Thank the Fates... – and Alice feels no compulsion whatsoever to keep her from her date with the flora.

"_Now _is it my turn?"

Biting back a laugh, Alice nods and turns toward the much muchier twin sister of the crown princess. "Do you best!" Alice invites and the clanking and clapping of wooden swords echoes across the pitch.

Blocking a slash and knocking away a thrust easily, Alice marvels at how two sisters can be so completely different and yet so inherently _good _in their own ways. Despite Bethie's aversion to sports, there is no kinder or gentler child in all of Mamoreal. And despite Tarra's fiery temper, there is no braver or more persistent six-year-old.

Tarra's attacks are uncontrolled and sometimes completely wild, but Alice knows that, someday – when Tarra is no longer so small and her body so undisciplined – this girl will be a frighteningly _good _fighter, indeed. That is, if her interest in the sport doesn't wane in the meantime.

"No, no, no," Tarrant had replied when she'd mentioned the possibility, however slight, of Tarra growing up to be a proper lady. "She's got a Leif to impress!"

Alice has to resist rolling her eyes at the memory. For the love of squealing mome raths, that man is _stubborn_ when it comes to his ideas! In fact, his namesake is nearly _as _obstinate as _he _is!

Face flushed and scowling with determination, Tarra continues her advance and Alice gives ground. Yes, she could easily defeat a small girl, but that is not what these lessons are about! When Tarra manages a rather good cutting attack, Alice lets her sword be knocked wide and Tarra takes advantage, rushing her. A spike of alarm bursts from her heart as the dullish point of the wooden sword thrusts toward her belly.

_No!_

She grabs the blade reflexively with her left hand and, using the force Tarra is exerting on it, pushes herself back another step until there's sufficient distance between the tip of the weapon and Tarrant's child.

Alice lets out a breath in relief; all is fine; _everyone is safe._ If only she could get her heart to stop pounding, now...

A tendril of worry whispers beneath her skin, over her heart, and Alice struggles with the adrenaline for a moment. Before he can send a more urgent inquiry, she replies to Tarrant's initial hesitant connection – oh, how he hates to interrupt her when she's working! – with reassurance.

And he's not the only one who needs it. In front of her, Tarra looks severely peeved at Alice's maneuver, which the girl no doubt feels is _cheating._

"Excellent attack, Tarra!" Alice enthuses, still a bit breathless from the close call. She doubts anything _serious_ would have happened had Tarra managed to ram her stomach with the practice blade. Still, it's the _idea..._ Alice tells her, releasing the sword and reaching out to ruffle the girl's untidy hair, "Well done."

Grinning, Tarra races around Alice toward the castle. "Did you see me, Mumma? I beats Alice today!"

Turning, Alice regards the queen, seated comfortably next to the pitch. Her usual attendants are present and currently minding Amallya, who is playing peek-a-boo behind an ever-blossoming cherry tree, and Thacie who is flailing happily on her nurse's lap, trying her hardest to run just like her elder sisters can.

"Yes, I saw you, squimkin! You were wonderful!"

Alice wanders closer. "Tarra's got a strong arm, Your Majesty," she informs her, using the honorific in the presence of their audience.

"Hear that, Mumma? I'm _strong!_ Can I fight Leif next? He's strong! And big! But I'm small and fast and I can fight him, can't I, Mumma?"

Alice merely raises her brows and lets the queen handle that one. She glances over at the pair of white bassinets placed next to Mirana on the quilt. She can see that newborn Prince Dalerian is fast asleep. His twin brother, however, is staring up at the sky with wide, dark eyes, his small mouth opening and closing again and again.

"Hello, again, Leivlan." Alice glances over at the queen as she tickles her squirming squimkin. When Tarra races off, swinging her wooden sword with more enthusiasm than intent, Alice inquires, "Are you calling them Ian and Lanny yet?"

Mirana smiles at the twin boys in the bassinets. "Not yet!"

"You look well today. Childbirth agrees with you." It's hard to believe the woman is up and about so soon afterward. Alice dares to hope she'll be at least half as strong when _her _time comes...

The queen smiles. "It seems to. I was quite lucky, I think," she replies, reaching out a finger to tickle Leivlan's nearly bald head. Alice watches his little hands curl into fists and his dark eyes dart about as if looking for the source of the sensation, but unable to focus properly enough to find it.

"You _are _lucky, Mirana," Alice whispers. The nurse holding Thacie has wandered over to where Amallya is trying to climb a cherry tree in defiance of her minder's warnings. Alice glances at the king's First Claw, which Mirana still wears around her neck. "The Soul Bond is truly an amazing thing. Seven children and all of them are so..."

Mirana replies, "How is it the magic of Underland still surprises you, Alice? You've experienced it for yourself time and time again!"

Alice shakes her head. "I don't think I'll ever get used to the idea that two people can provide a... a _moral compass_ for their children. Through a Soul Bond, I mean. That's just..."

"Necessary in a powerful family," the queen finishes gently. "If only my parents had taken such measures, perhaps Iracebeth wouldn't have..."

Alice nods, understanding. Yes, if the previous king and queen had initiated a Soul Bond between them, then cruelty and callousness never would have gotten a foothold in Iracebeth's heart. The Soul Bond would have subtly bound their children to their sense of morality, which – from the occasional stories Mirana has told her – Alice believes had been of the purest and kindest sort. She doesn't ask how Dale and Mirana's children will carry on the tradition without a First Claw, for none of them resemble their lion-father; there are _many_ rites in Underland that will bind two souls.

"Still," the queen continues, "I can understand why my parents had not chosen that path..." She frowns as she watches Tarra raise her sword and wave it at the rose bush her sister is conversing with. Immediately, Bethie puts herself between them, protecting the flowers. "Is it right to take away even that much of someone's will?" Mirana whispers wonderingly. "I'm still not sure..."

"But it's necessary," Alice reminds her, knowing another Red Queen must never be permitted to rise to power again. Ever. "So... let's talk of something else."

"Yes," Mirana agrees whole-heartedly. "Let us discuss _your _plans to start a family."

Alice winces. "Well, you know..."

"I've told you time and time again, Alice, the Oraculum has shown _nothing _to discourage..."

"But it can change so suddenly," she rebuts.

"Is that why you and Tarrant haven't...? Well, I assume you've spoken to him about it. He seems... more thoughtful and... cheerful? Recently," the queen murmurs.

"Yes, we spoke," Alice says simply.

Mirana pats her hand. "Well, when the time is right for both of you, you will take that last step."

_Already taken,_ Alice thinks but does not say. This child is _their _secret. For now. For as long as they can manage it. Alice's experiences years ago with Stayne and then later with Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer have taught her to _always_ keep her most treasured of treasures close, secret, hidden. Alice knows she won't be able to conceal her condition indefinitely. In fact, it's mostly thanks to Mirana's off-handed speculation about how Underlandian pregnancy remedies might have to be adjusted to suit Alice's Uplander biology that Alice has managed to keep the nausea and exhaustion at bay at all.

_Thank the Fates Mirana likes to talk to herself about alchemy_, Alice thinks, _and speculate on my private life._ Luckily, the dosage recommendation the queen had whimsically muttered about during her pregnancy with Amallya had stuck in Alice's memory... and it had also _worked _when Alice had found the need to try it.

Still, this deception won't be possible forever. At _best_, she'll be able to manage only two more months of it.

_And then what?_

Alice sighs and admits the answer she already knows: And then she'll have to let Tarrant look after _her_, take up _her _sword if necessary. Once upon a time, she would have asked Chessur, but with hisown responsibilities taking up so much of his time, Alice knows she can't ask the Cheshire Cat to step in for her as the Queen's Champion.

_No, it will have to be Tarrant._

She gazes out across the pitch and frowns.

_Dear Fates, I hope he and Leif don't end up killing each other during training practice..._

Despite the years – and the possessive tendencies of a certain six-year-old princess – that have mellowed Leif's heroic nature into an easy-going friendliness, and despite Tarrant's ever-increasing self-control, they're still _males_, after all...

"Males with pointy sticks," she mutters darkly.

"I'm sorry, what was that, Alice?"

"Hm? Oh, nothing. A wandering mind," she replies, noticing that the queen had lifted Leivlan from his bassinet and is nursing him beneath a shawl thrown over her shoulder and across her chest.

"Are you looking forward to the Clan Gathering?" the queen asks.

"I think so," Alice tells her. "Sometimes I am. Sometimes I'm... not sure. The Irondirks are coming, so... sometimes I don't know what to think about that."

Mirana frowns. "But... Davon, isn't it?"

Alice nods.

"He looked out for you in Causwick, did he not?"

"He did. For the most part he managed to keep the other mercenaries in line. And both Tarrant and I appreciate that. Still, seeing him will bring back memories."

"Not happy ones," the queen adds sadly.

"We survived," Alice says with a wry smile, thinking of Davon's attempt to kill her during the Champions' Duel. She doubts Tarrant has forgotten _that,_ either... "The Clan Gathering will be fine," she declares and does her best to wish it into being.

"You've quite the task ahead of you, Alice, what with the Hightopp clan hosting the Gathering this year... and there just being the two of you to manage it. Are you sure I can't persuade you to borrow Thackery or the Tweedles or...?"

"If a small contingent of your guard could bring and erect the tents and also deliver the provisions we'd discussed, that will be more than sufficient. But thank you for the offer." Alice once again glances around her, checking on the children and their minders. "I think this is something Tarrant needs to do himself..."

"Yes, of course," Mirana replies, laying her son down and buttoning her bodice. "When will you be leaving?"

"Tomorrow morning, I think. That'll give us nearly two days before the clans start arriving." Alice considers that event and the number of guests they're expecting. "I'm actually surprised so many are coming given the location and its... history."

Mirana pats Alice's arm. "That Hightopps are one of the most respected families amongst the Outlanders."

"Tarrant said they'd always been employed at court. Would that be why?"

The queen smiles. "I shall let Tarrant tell you that story, perhaps..."

Alice laughs. "Yes, thank you. After seven years, it's getting harder and harder to find new topics to discuss. We're lucky you and the king have so many exuberant children or I fear our evenings would be woefully silent, for the most part." She winks.

Mirana's gape is brief but genuine. "Don't tell me you gossip about my _children _to pass the time!"

"That and when you'll be producing the next one," Alice admits, only half-joking.

The queen sighs and shakes her head. "Those days are at an end, I think, dear Alice. Five births and seven children in as many years is..."

"Yes," Alice replies, smiling in hopes of chasing away the faint sadness in the queen's face. "Yes, it is. They are. Most definitely."

And the queen's smile returns. "They're wonderful, aren't they?" she asks with genuine curiosity. "Those aren't just the words of a mother, are they?"

"No. Your children are..." Alice searches her ever-expanding vocabulary and chooses the terms in Outlandish she hopes convey the meaning she's seeking: "_Wonderfulously beautrific, callaycious, callouryin'–_"

Mirana laughs. "I suppose that's the other thing you and Tarrant do with your not-quite-silent evenings together? Outlandish?"

Alice feels herself blush. "Um, something like that."

The queen laughs, reading Alice's unspoken admission easily: Alice doesn't _try _to learn, nor does Tarrant _try _to teach her. In moments of passion, when she asks him to speak Outlandish... well, can she help it if she remembers some of his more creative and distinctive phrases? No, of course not.

Glancing at the sun, Alice decides she ought to get moving. She and Tarrant have a lot of preparations to make before they can leave on the morrow. She bids the queen a good day and wanders into the castle, stopping at the small weapons closet long enough to put away the equipment for the day's lesson (with the exception of the wooden sword Tarra is probably going to try to keep with her for the rest of the day... again!) before heading toward the hat workshop.

She makes a brief detour toward the kitchen to ask Thackery for a lunch tray and, just on the other side of the kitchen door, she spots an old friend hovering in the hall, contemplating the entrance.

"Chessur! What are you doing here? I thought..."

The cat gives her a typical grin. "Oh, just thought I'd come by and–"

"Ye'll no'be taken all m'Thrambleberries, Chessur!" Thackery hollers from inside the kitchen.

Alice _Looks _at Chessur whose grin curves wider with embarrassment. "The hatchlings do love those berries," he muses by way of explanation.

She bites her lip and hums noncommittally. She still marvels that Chessur had ended up being part of the solution to the impossible thing the Jabberwocky had alluded to in Iplam.

"As the last of my kind," it had confided to her one summer afternoon when she and Tarrant had returned to Iplam to start rebuilding his family's ancestral home. "It falls upon me to bring my fellows back into Underland. Underland is far too large for one jabberwocky to manage all on its own," Krystoval had said. "And yet even one hatchling is far too much for one jabberwocky to manage..."

And that had been the moment when Alice had thought of a shape-shifting cat with evaporating skills who had been undoubtedly smitten with the Jabberwocky for some time.

It's an unlikely alliance, but – clearly – an advantageous one.

"And how is everyone?" Alice asks, still finding it hard to think of Chessur as the sort to watch over four juvenile jabberwockies while their... mother? father? parent? creator? is out and about looking for dinner.

"Oh, fine, fine..."

"And... has Maevyn spoken yet?" Alice hates asking but she can't stop herself from hoping...

Chessur sighs. "No. No, not as yet. Rest assured, Alice, either I or Krystoval will notify you _immediately _should Maevyn acquire the ability to identify the one who..."

Alice nods. She doesn't say that she regrets not being able to give the baby Jabberwocky and its parent the justice they deserve. She would only be repeating herself and she's well aware that both Krystoval and Chessur know she would do _anything _to hunt down the beast that had injured Maevyn.

"Are they flying yet?" she asks instead.

"Just fluttering a bit here and there," the cat admits proudly, as if he's a parent himself. Well, in a way, Alice supposes he is. Chessur has no closer friend, no dearer companion, than Krystoval. Kindred spirits, those two: droll, witty, wry, and often times snobbishly exclusive and patronizing kindred spirits.

Narrowing her eyes in speculation, Alice asks, "Well, they're certainly mobile enough to go forage for their own Thrambleberries. Why are you always elected to the task?"

"Oh, the leaves are poisonous, you know. To jabberwockies. Makes their scales break out in a terrible rash."

"Is that so? I'd hate to see an itchy jabberwocky."

"As would I. Hence, I do the Thrambleberry fetching."

"Wait... have you ever actually _seen _one of the jabberwockies contract this rash?"

"Well... no..." Chessur gives Alice his undivided attention and grins. "What _are _you suggesting _now,_ Uplander?"

Alice replies with a smile that feels rather... mysterious. At least from her side of it. "Well, everyone knows there's no better Thrambleberry harvester than a March Hare and, I believe, Thackery is the reigning champion of the Pick-a-Therry Festival?"

"Yes...?"

"Well, if you wanted the very _best _berries, then where would you find them?"

"With the reigning champion, in the White Queen's kitchens, naturally."

"And would a jabberwocky be able to get _into _the White Queen's kitchens?"

"Well, of course... not... _Oooh_..."

Alice bites back a laugh as understanding lights Chessur's furry face.

"Why those devious, slithy, tove-ish excuses for jabberwockies," he muses looking far too delighted for the words themselves. "_That,_ my dear Alice, is a strategy worthy of a cat."

"I'm sure a _Cheshire_ Cat could do one better," she muses.

The grin Chessur gives her... well, she's never seen a smile so wide from him. "If you'll excuse me, I've a bit of recompense to contemplate."

"You're excused," Alice says to the suddenly empty air. Chuckling she steps into the kitchen, ducks a wooden bowl, and greets the March Hare. "Hello, Thackery. How are you?"

He twitches. "Thramble thieves!" he exclaims worriedly.

"Chessur's gone," she assures him. "Your berries are safe."

"Ar, ye think so? A mahn can ne'er be tae careful wi'his berries!"

Biting back a smile, Alice nods in whole-hearted agreement.

"An' ye'll be wantin' sommat tae lunch on?" he says, convulsing a bit next to the stove as he seems to debate the contents of each pot.

"That would be nice. Can you spare...?"

"Spares? No, no spares teh be had, but I made a bit fer ye an' yer lad."

"A rhyme," she congratulates him, then holds the plates and bowls while he flings the bread and stew at her. She considers this another form of Champion training and today only a small splatter manages to spot her shirt cuff.

"Not bad," she tells herself as she continues on her way to Tarrant's workshop. It's a measure of how busy he is that he doesn't meet her somewhere between his workshop and the kitchen; the man has a sixth (or would this be the seventh?) sense as to when Alice is balancing their lunch plates on a heavy tray in the castle hallways. In fact, she's a bit surprised to arrive at his workroom and find herself facing a _closed _door.

Wondering what in all the realms of Underland he could be doing in there that would require privacy, she taps her toe against the door, rapping out the distinctive beat to the Waltz of the Tumtum Tree. She makes it to the first stanza before the door swings open.

Alice smiles. "Oooh, _now _I see why you had the door closed."

In the midst of reaching for the lunch tray, Tarrant glances at her sheepishly and blushes. "Jus' checkin' tae see if 'twould need alterin'..."

"Uhm hmm..." she muses, kicking the door shut behind her. She follows him to the small tea table, her gaze focused on the kilt he's wearing. "It looks as if it fits you just... fine." Of course, she _could _have reminded him that he hasn't gained an ounce of weight in all the years she's known him. In fact, he hasn't even gained a wrinkle. Actually, sometimes – like now, for instance – he looks _younger _than she can ever remember him being.

"Raven..." she wonders aloud as he sets their lunch down on the table. Stepping closer to him, she gives into temptation and ghosts her fingers over the tartan wrapped around his hips. "What _do _Outlander lads wear under their kilts?"

His blush deepens. Alice marvels. She teases him about this very thing _every time _she sees him in his kilt – which is admittedly rare, but still memorable, she thinks! – yet she _still_ manages to fluster him.

"If'n yer askin' 'bout'_all_ Outlandish lads, I'm afraid I cannae help ye, Alice," he replies gamely.

"Not all; just one." Alice is _sure _she's grinning madly as she pushes him into his chair and leans over him. She rephrases: "What does an Outlander _hatter_ wear under his kilt, Raven?"

He gulps. "Tha's a question only tha' particular hatter's wife wou'ge'an answer teh."

"I believe I'm _this_ hatter's wife..." She settles her palms over his bare knees which peep out above his mismatched socks. (Of course his socks are mismatched – how boring would it be to wear two of the same kind when one has the chance to model a variety! And at the same time, no less!)

"Aye," Tarrant agrees, giggling. She tries not to tickle his knees too badly. "Tha' ye are..."

"And has the answer to my question changed since I last asked?" Her hands slide up to his lap and disappear beneath the Hightopp colors.

Tarrant giggles a bit hysterically. "Wha' was th'answer las'time?"

Alice encounters wonderfully bare skin as she pushes her palms up his thighs. "Hm..." Arriving at her destination, she feels her grin turn a bit... manic. "The same as it is this time, if I'm not mistaken," she replies, exploring.

"I... cannae recall... jus' nauw," he whispers, his thimbled fingers thrusting gently into her hair. "Alice...?"

"Yes?"

"Ye ken I... try ver'hard _no'_teh interfere wi'yer work..."

"Oh, am I interfering?"

"Um, ah..."

"Shall I stop?"

He groans softly. "Stop wha', Alice?"

"What I'm doing."

"Wha't'are ye doin'?"

"Interfering with your work."

"Ahem! Oh, yes. _Yes! _I believe you... are. That's... very... _very_... _ngh!_... a ver'_bad_ habit! ... _Alice...?_"

"Tarrant?"

"Jus' a wee bit..."

"More?"

"... _aye_..."

Needless to say, the stew is a bit cooler than it ought to be when they finally get around to eating it.

* * *

Notes:

1. No, Chessur and the Jabberwocky are **not** in a sexual relationship. More on this in later chapters.

2. Yes, the queen's children are named after her fiercest protectors: Alice (Alicibeth), Tarrant (Tarranya), Chessur (Chestor), Mallymkun (Amallya), Thackery (Thacie), Dale (Dalerian), and Leif (Leivlan). No doubt she hopes those names will bring her children strength and an auspicious future.

3. A special "Thank you" goes out to my friend and reviewer, Ver, for the comment (back in Book 2, Chapter 2) about the Soul Bond being "Something Important." At the time, I'd just planned to use it as one more obstacle Alice and Tarrant would have to overcome (and they do, in Book 2, Chapters 14 & 15). But I got to thinking about it: _Why **is** a Soul Bond advantageous for a ruling family like the Avens?_ And then my brain spat out this explanation: it's a moral compass for a couple's children. And that was just... perfect. So, THANK YOU, Ver!

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[End of Chapter 1]


	80. Book 3, The Laird and Lady of Iplam, 1

_**Chapter Two: The Laird and Lady of Iplam**_ [Scene 1 of 2]

"I've just a thing or two to do in the workshop," he'd said. "Go on to bed."

He'd lost an hour when she'd asked him to lie down with her. Lost an hour, but gained a sense of peace and tranquility that he wouldn't trade for anything. The memory of his wife's face, surrendered to the exhaustion that she can't _always _fight and _finally _relaxed in sleep; the feel of her body curled toward his like a flower turned toward the sun; the heat of her breaths – no, both _her _breaths and his littlin's, for she breathes for both of them, doesn't she? – against his arm though the fabric of his shirt: these things keep him company now as he works his way toward midnight.

A thing or two to do. Yes, that is _exactly _what Tarrant does. The task that occupies his time now is rhythmic, simple, and repetitious. After being at it for so long, his hands move from memory. From the corner of his workshop, the sound of the loom booms in the silence, but he doesn't care who he wakes and as soundly as Alice has taken to sleeping these past not-quite-three months, he doubts – if he wakes anyone – it will be her. This is his last chance to finish and he _will _finish _In Time!_

Sometimes he has to pause and reapply the fabric pins before he can continue weaving. Sometimes he has to stop and fold the finished length of cloth over his lap lest it develop unseemly wrinkles. Sometimes he has to ignore the fact that the wool is not as fine nor the weaving as uniform as it ought to be.

After all, he's never made a tartan _this way _before. His Fa had. His Fa had shown him how to do it, but that had been _so Long Ago..._ And Tarrant had nearly forgotten the rite altogether what with he and Alice living in the White Queen's castle and only rarely meeting with other Outlanders.

_Outlanders..._

Tarrant glowers as he jabs the fabric pin a bit more viciously than is strictly necessary.

Other Outlanders, like the Irondirks: skilled smithies and fighters, the lot of them, but Tarrant knows what that man's role had been in pushing his Alice into madness. He'd even _watched _as that man had tried to _kill her on the battlefield!_

_Lickspittle, pilgar-suckling, __**shukm-greizin'...!**_

Tarrant lifts his hands from the loom, closes his eyes, focuses on the warm, steady pulse – Alice's pulse! Their _littlin's _pulse! – of his Heart Mark, and takes a deep breath.

Calm again, he admits that although _he _is not fond of Davon Irondirk – _no, not fond AT ALL!_ – for some odd reason, Alice finds the man amusing.

And speaking of Outlanders and other things he's most assuredly Not Fond of...

It had driven Tarrant to distraction when his Alice had gone to Salazen Grum to help Fenruffle sort out the property deeds amongst the new citizens of the White Realm. He'd only lasted two days before he'd asked one of the horses to take him there so he could see for himself that his Alice was safe.

At least she hadn't been angry with him for that. She _could _have been, he knows. She could have accused him of not trusting her ability to look after herself. But she hadn't. And, with a single look, he'd known she wouldn't. His need to see her had had nothing to do with a lack of trust and everything to do with his own weakness: he'd spent twenty-three days without her and the final seven of those in fear for her, not knowing what she was doing or what she was being forced to endure. He had not been able to withstand _Not Knowing_ a second time.

In Salazen Grum, he'd kept himself busy and out of her way – Alice had been working, after all! – instructing the children of the former mercenaries in the art of basic clothing repair, and he'd also assisted the wives and mothers with clothing alteration techniques, and – before he'd known it – Alice had announced that it was time to go home.

Strangely, in that moment, he'd thought of Iplam.

And he'd kept on thinking of it even after they'd arrived in Mamoreal.

And so, the following spring, Tarrant had asked his Alice for the biggest and Most Important Favor he'd yet dared to request:

_"Will ye help me rebuild Hightopp Village?"_

And she had. Every summer, they gone back to build: a guest cottage first, then the bath house and the kitchens. After that, it had taken three years to complete and furnish the Main House. In the process, they'd cleared out the debris from the well, torn down the shambles of the stables, and put up a new storehouse for harvested edibles. Not that there _are _any edibles to harvest from Iplam at the moment, but... someday... there might be...

_Aye, someday ye might go back there, lad. When ye've resigned yer post... When Alice'as found a worthy replacement fer th'Queen's Champion..._

Tarrant dares to Wonder about that future, about their child's place in it...

He has to pull his hands away from the loom and press the heels of his hands against his eyes to keep the simmering heat of tears from pushing out. He can still _barely – hardly, scarcely, dare to! – _Believe that Alice had agreed to... that she wants his... wants _him _to be a...

He can't think It. Not now. Not when it's late and he's too tired to keep the emotion from erupting out of him and waking his wife.

His _wife_. Yet another miracle he cannot Think About without feeling utterly overwhelmed.

Tarrant reaches for the pin again, jabs it ten times, then turns back to the loom, to the tartan his wife will need if she's going to be a right-proper Lady Hightopp of Iplam! He doesn't glance at the clock, for as long as the window beside him is dark, there's still Time to finish, Time yet to complete and then bestow the honor upon his wife that is hers by right, Time yet to fulfill his duty to her as the Laird of Iplam, Time yet to marvel that he is even Here, Now, doing This at all.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2: Scene 1 of 2]


	81. Book 3, The Laird and Lady of Iplam, 2

_**Warning: This chapter contains non-explicit sexual situations.**_

If you are of age, the explicit version is available on my homepage. See my FFnet profile/bio for the link. Thanks.

_**

* * *

**_

Chapter Two: The Laird and Lady of Iplam

[Scene 2 of 2]

"Did you manage _any_ sleep last night?" Alice gently asks him when he jerks himself awake for the two-and-two-thirds times four-hatpins-and-a-silver-ring time since beginning the familiar journey.

"So sorry," he mumbles, both to the horse that had kindly volunteered to be his mount and to Alice whom he's sure had been telling him something interesting or important or impressive (Perhaps today is an "I" day?) just now. "Preparing. Much to do. Be done. Was done. Prepared and now packed... Hm, perhaps it's a day for considering words that start with the letter 'P'..." And, upon hearing himself say that utter rubbish, Tarrant gives himself yet another shake. "So sorry, Alice. What were you saying?"

"Would you like to stop for tea?" she says patiently.

"Don't know about this droopy bloke," Tarrant's steed, a fellow by the name of Fitzfrey, interjects, "but I could do with a bucket or two."

"I'll second that," Alice's mount – Winsommer – adds. "Did you pack any sugar cubes, love?" The horse glances back at Alice.

"A bag or several."

"This looks like a good place to stop, then," Fitzfrey decides and wanders off the trail to a small, cozy-looking break amongst the budding trees. Tarrant struggles to keep his balance as the beast navigates the softer, uneven earth of the forest floor.

"Tarrant?" Alice asks worriedly.

Winsommer snorts. "Dismount before you disgrace yourself, Hatter."

"An excellent idea," he mumbles in agreement. Fitzfrey holds still while Tarrant attempts to gingerly swing his leg over the saddle. He moves _so_ carefully that Alice has plenty of time to slide down from her mount and assist him with stepping down from his.

"So sorry," he thinks he says again as he stumbles against her.

"It's fine. Now, sit here. Good. Relax for a bit and I'll make tea."

"Hrmmphlff..." he thanks her. Tarrant leans back against the trunk of a Tumtum tree (which feels far too soft to be possible) and his hat tilts over his eyes and...

... the next thing he knows, he's laid out on a bedroll with a warm arm wrapped around his shoulder. Blinking, he takes in the late afternoon light filtering down through the still-scanty forest canopy.

"We're late," he says. His voice sounds rough and scratchy to his own ears. He clears his throat.

"A bit. It's your fault for staying up all night. Naughty," Alice informs him.

He feels her amusement against his heart and finds himself giggling. "And I've missed tea."

"It's not gone brillig yet," Alice informs him, sitting up.

He rolls over and watches her stoke the small fire and place the kettle on it. The nearby Tumtum trees groan worriedly.

Alice reaches out and absently pats the trunk of one. "I'm not taking my eyes off of the fire this time," she assures the forest.

Tarrant's brows arc in inquiry. Alice sighs. "I just turned away for a _moment_ to get the buckets and cups and..."

"Yes," he agrees. "Moments do tend to get away from one when one's not paying attention!"

"In any case, no harm done."

The trees shiver.

Tarrant considers his wife. He watches as she adds the tea leaves then closes her eyes and tilts her head to the side just _so..._

_Listening to the tea leaves steeping!_

He smiles and he's still smiling when she hands him a cup of perfectly brewed black tea.

"Winsommer finished off nearly all of the sugar cubes," Alice tells him as she draws something out of her pocket. "But I hid a few..."

Tarrant holds out his cup and accepts two. "Thank you, Alice." He holds out his arm and, collecting her own cup, she sits next to him, pressing against his side.

"Are you nervous?" Alice asks after a moment of companionable, tea-sipping silence.

"I don't think I'd mind overly much should Fitzfrey or Winsommer wander by and see us sitting here..."

She snorts. "I meant about the Maigh."

"Oh."

"Oh?"

Tarrant stalls by blowing across his cup, taking a sip, and then playing with Alice's short hair. She turns to kiss his fingertips.

"_Tarrant!_"

"What?" he asks, surprised by her scandalized tone.

"_What? WHAT?_" She sends him a disbelieving look. "What have you done to your poor fingers? Does your other hand look like this?"

Tarrant winces as she grasps his palm and examines his many-times-punctured and still-raw fingertips.

_Ye fergot th'Pain Paste, lad._

Obviously.

"'Tis fine, Alice," he assures her.

"No, it's not."

She moves to stand, but he tightens his arm around her shoulders. "Later. Just... jus' stay wi'me fer nauw?" he whispers against her hair. After a moment, Alice relaxes against him, as he'd known she would. Yes, sometimes Outlandish is _very _Useful.

"You didn't answer my question," she reminds him.

When she picks up her teacup again, Tarrant says, "I will. Tomorrow. Ask me another answer for now."

Alice gives him a wry smile. "Mirana says the Hightopps are quite highly regarded by the other clans."

"Ah..." he murmurs, surprised by Alice's choice of answer to ask. "Well, tha'tis a bit o'a long story..."

"The horses are foraging. I think they'll be a while yet."

He finishes his tea and leans back against a particularly fat and comfortable-looking Tumtum tree. Alice settles against him. He begins, "Long, long ago, when Underland had no kings or queens or boundaries or borders, the people and animals and plants lived as they wished. Or as they wished they could, for there was one problem and 'twas the seasons.

"The seasons came and went whenever they felt like it and Winter in particular was rather reluctant to move on once he'd arrived. The Hightopps – a modest clan of tailors then – got the Idea to host a party. A Farewell Party for Winter, actually. Hoped to tire the fellow out and send him off to bed so that Spring might be able to stop by for a visit."

Tarrant pauses and leans his cheek against Alice's hair, closes his eyes, and waits for her to prompt him for more, which she unfailingly does whenever he tells her a story:

"What happened?" her ever-burning curiosity makes her ask.

He smiles against her hair.

"Well, the festival was a success; all the dancing – the first Futterwhacken, actually – and singing and the be-ribboning of the Maypoles... well, the merriment wore poor old Winter out and he toddled off home. When Spring arrived, of course, the party became a Welcome Party and there was more dancing – _better _Futterwhacken this time as everyone was so happy to see that the plan had worked – and more singing and more ribbons on the Maypoles... Spring was so overjoyed to be Welcomed so warmly that he gave the Hightopps a very special gift."

Again, he waits. And again, she pushes for more: "What was the gift, Hatter?"

"Guess, my Alice."

She considers it for a few moments. "Spring taught the Hightopps how to make hats, to keep their heads dry during the spring showers?"

"An _excellent _guess, but..."

"Not the right one. All right..." He can nearly _feel _the thoughts churning within her head. He sighs, content. He _loves _nearly feeling Alice's thoughts.

"He gave Iplam to the Hightopps?"

"No. Try again."

She sighs, thinks, and – hesitantly – says, "Spring gave you all the colors in your eyes?"

He giggles, pleased. "You've guessed it, Alice! Well, nearly..." He stretches out his arm so that she can clearly see his jacket sleeve and cuff. "Not only our eyes change color with our mood," he tells her and, concentrating on how very Much he Loves his Alice, Tarrant watches with her as his shirt cuff turns from a pale pink – his usual color of contentment – into a rich lavender.

"Of course, my eyes change color faster. They're connected, you see. Clothing needs a bit of time and responds to one's overall disposition."

Alice reaches out and touches his cuff and then moves to his jacket sleeve which is starting to slowly molt into indigo from plum. "You know..." she muses aloud. "I have no idea why I never asked about that. I suppose I just thought it was something you could do, being a milliner."

Tarrant giggles again. "I was rather surprised you didn't ask, either!"

"Why did Spring give the Hightopps so many colors? The ability to effect them, I mean?"

Finally, he concludes the tale that's been passed down through his family for generations: "So that we need never be surrounded by the Grey of Winter again."

"That's a beautiful story, Tarrant," she rewards him, turning so that he can see her smile.

"I'm glad you liked it, Raven."

For a long moment, there is only he and she and the warm pleasure that comes from a gently told, sweetly ending tale. And then her smile fades. Tarrant moves his hands to her arms as if to hold her in that moment of happiness with him.

"I'm sorry. About the winter, I mean." Looking very sad, Alice explains, "You were very... grey when I arrived, late for tea on Griblig Day. And..." She raises a hand and lays it against his cheek. "For so long you were so pale..."

"And had you _not _returned to Underland, Alice, I would _still _be living in those Grey Days, but you _did_ return and so I am no longer required to kill Time and I think – that is, I _believe _– that I shall never be forced to do so again. I have faith in us, you see," he explains as the words come to him. "Perhaps I'm not so pale now because I am not so frightened of being alone."

Alice's response to this simply-stated declaration exceeds his expectations. She sits up, swings her leg around and straddles his lap. Petting his face and paying particular attention to his brows and mouth and the skin under his eyes – eyes which he's sure must be Glowing at this point – she brushes a whisper against his lips:

"I choose us."

Even after seven years, those three words still have the power to make him come Undone.

Perhaps now, even more so. Now that _us _is no longer just the _two _of them. He closes his eyes and fights against the shudder that threatens to jumble his thoughts. Dear Fates, what would he do if something were to happen to his Alice _now?_

"It's all right," she whispers.

His worries recede enough for him to notice that she's combing her fingers through his hair. "I'm sorry," Tarrant tells her. "I..."

"Worry," she finishes. "I know. It's all right."

Perhaps it is. Perhaps it isn't. But his wife's voice and hands and Real-ness make it seem so. "Shall we call for the horses?" he asks, finally.

"I suppose we should. It's getting late."

The ride to Iplam is brief and Tarrant thanks the horses before helping them with their tack. He opens the storehouse for them while Alice takes their things to the guest cottage. He'd been afraid she would mind not staying in the Main House, but she hadn't.

"We'll need the room if it rains," she'd assumed aloud.

Tarrant had shaken his head. "It's not the weather we have to worry about. This is Spring's party, after all."

"So what will we need it for?"

Tarrant had grinned. "For the newlyweds."

"The newlyweds?"

"Yes, yes. On the first full day – the day of the Maigh – there's the Declaration of Vows, at which time those that have been hand-fasting or betrothed or promised to each other since the _previous _Maigh will state their vows and be wed."

Alice had glanced around the clearing nervously. "Oh. That changes things. I ought to have asked Mirana for something to decorate—"

Tarrant had shushed her with a finger placed gently against her lips. "Traditionally, that's for the guests to bring. Everything is just as it should be."

With a small smile, Alice had relaxed and noted, "We already made our Declarations here, didn't we?" She'd lifted her left hand and placed it over his heart.

Transfixed by the sight of the ring – _his _ring – still on her finger, he'd merely nodded.

"So we'll be putting the newly wed couples in the guest bedrooms of the Main House?"

Another nod.

"Where they can make as much noise as they like and it won't bother the rest of us?"

A giggle. "More likely, the noise from the party will bother _them._ It's one party," he'd clarified at her puzzled look. "And it lasts from brillig on the Eve of Maigh to the morning _after_ Maigh."

"So... what? No one sleeps?"

"Only when absolutely necessary!"

And so, while they'd had the chance, they'd gone to bed and gotten a good deal of sound slumber in.

The next morning had been a busy one: unpacking, airing out the mattresses in the Main House, opening up the kitchen and the bath house. And then, suddenly, with the arrival of the Queen's Guard, things had gotten considerably busier! But now that the soldiers have gone back to Mamoreal, things are quiet once again. Quiet, and ready for the arrival of the first wave of guests.

The tents have been erected and the kitchen and bath house stocked. There's stew in the cauldron and bread warming in the clay ovens. Even the flowers had been managed; Alice had asked the First Flower to tell the others to remain underground for a few days lest they be picked or trampled by the guests.

Yes, all is ready. Or, very nearly. He can _feel _brillig's relentless approach as Tarrant considers the clearing and the spot he'd dug for the Maypole.

"Do you need some help with that?"

He does, but he'd rather not ask for Alice's assistance. "The pole's too heavy for you to lift," he replies, mulling over the problem of placing the base in the hole he'd dug and then holding it steady while he fills it in.

"I can lift a shovel," she reminds him.

Tarrant glances at her stomach, still normally shaped, of course! That still startles him: knowing their child is _within _her and yet inconceivably small yet... That lack of evidence never ceases to frighten him. Sometimes he thinks he must have dreamed up that childbearing rite or that he's dreaming now and any moment he'll wake up _not _expecting to be a father... He shakes his head, denies the fear its usual foothold.

"No shovel," he tells her. "'Tis nae good fer yer back."

Crossing her arms, Alice gives him a droll look. "I can at least brace the Maypole, can't I? _That _won't strain anything."

Tarrant feels himself blush at her tone. He _knows _he's being Overprotective but, _brangergain i'tall!_ he _hardly ever _has the opportunity to protect _his_ Alice! He'd like to do a good job of it despite his lack of recent experience!

"D'nae take tha' tone wi'me!" he replies. He hears himself, knows his tone is a tad too sharp but can do nothing about it. "'Tis a husband's right teh worry abou' his wife whil' she's a-carryin' his littlin'!"

Alice blinks at him, shocked. Tarrant's a little shocked at himself as well. His words seem to echo in the field, bouncing back and forth between the sparse collection of buildings. This is the first time he's spoken those words aloud beyond the safety of their apartment. For an instant, he feels a swelling wave of panic: _Has he been dreaming after all?_

He watches as Alice draws closer to him. The panic wars with his remorse at having shouted at her. She places her hands on his arms, then, after studying his expression for a moment, wraps those slender arms around him.

"I'm fine," she says. "We're fine. We're _all _fine. And I want to help."

He presses his palms against her belly before sliding his hands around her waist. "So sorry, Alice," he lisps into her ear. In truth, he's not even sure _why _he'd suddenly snapped.

"It's my fault as well. I don't mean to... mock you."

Is that what she'd done? Is that what had just happened? Tarrant frowns. Surely not! No, the blame for his outburst must lie elsewhere. Haltingly, he reminds her, "I'm still mad, Alice. Sometimes, my mind... it... I can't... I'm not sure of anything... except that I'm mad sometimes. Still."

She sighs. "How many times have I told you that all the best people are?"

"An' I'm slurvish..." he continues in a daze. "Mayhap I shoul'nae've agreed teh... The littlin', Alice, I could... I might..." _Oh, __**why **__had he thought he could do this? Be a father? Be a child's mad hatter of a father?_

"But I was so, so happy when you asked me, Alice," he can't stop himself from adding. The words help him focus on staying calm. "All I could think was... I _want _this. Him. Her. Her. Him. With you and..."

"Hush," Alice croons, rubbing her hands over his back. "You are allowed to doubt."

It's such a simple sentence and yet the _Relief _he feels is incredible.

"Am I?"

"Yes. Yes, you are." Alice takes a step back and meets his still-worried gaze. "But I know _exactly _who you are. I knew it when I asked if you wanted this. Do you trust _my _decision?"

_Well, when it's put that way..._

Tarrant closes his eyes and nods. "Alice?" He takes a deep breath. "If... sometimes, I start to... I become... a little frightened... could you... would you...?"

"Yes," she promises. "I'll tell you: You can do this. You're not alone." She reaches for his left hand a presses his palm over her belly then covers it with her own: two heart lines and a babe. "Together, remember?"

"Everything. Perfect. Together," he agrees and settles his lips against hers.

Alice lifts her arms to his shoulders. Her fingertips tickle the back of his neck and the edge of his ear. The soft, whispering touch of her lips becomes firmer as his arms pull her closer.

"The Maypole?" she murmurs against his mouth when the kiss, rather than ending, becomes a massage of warm lips and hot breaths.

He answers her by easing his tongue between her lips. Alice moans with needy surprise as he brushes his tongue against hers with gentle, shallow strokes. He knows she likes this sort of Kissing best... His palms smooth up her sides until his thumbs are resting just against the underside of each breast. She moves against him, impatient.

Pulling away, she takes a step toward the guest cottage. "Come inside," she whispers.

He shivers at the words, spoken innocently but taken in more ways than one. "I intend to," he replies, following in her wake. Somehow he makes it through the door, remembers to close it behind him, navigates the cluttered room and meets Alice on the mattress.

In the years of passion they've enjoyed, Tarrant has learned exactly _where_, exactly _how_ to touch his wife to make her the _most _impatient. He deliberately uses that knowledge now, not because they're pressed for time, but because he wants to – _needs to _– see that Desire in her unfocused eyes; he _thirsts_ to witness her expression tense with Pleasure; his skin _burns _to feel her Reaching for him...

Perfect things, Tarrant has learned, rarely last for more than an instant, a moment. _This _perfect thing – _this..._ with Alice – lasts much longer than a moment, and yet it is always too brief, too fleeting. This perfect moment when Tarrant is whole and his past and his madness as his love for Alice all come together into something so overwhelmingly beautiful and breathtaking... He knows why this perfection cannot last forever – for if it did how would he ever know what he was feeling was so very Precious? – yet he also knows that when it is over, another perfect thing will be waiting for him, for her, for _them:_ the perfection of their life together...

When awareness returns to him, it comes in the form of sound and touch: of panting breaths and racing heartbeats. He kisses her as he withdraws from her embrace and kneels on the bed.

"_Nnngh,_" she informs him. And then her eyelashes flutter open and she _smiles._ "I'd say I'm sorry I didn't help you with the Maypole, except..." Her gaze moves down his body suggestively. Her lips twitch. "_Except_, if I'm not mistaken, I think I just did."

Tarrant presses his face to the inside of her bent knee and cackles, snorts, and giggles. "_Naughty..._" he tells her skin. When he looks up, they share a grin that's luminous with their own unique kind of madness. "Thank you, Alice. I can always count on you for assistance."

She laughs out loud.

They dare to linger in bed for a few more minutes, touching, murmuring, ignoring the fact that they have not killed Time at all and brillig is drawing ever closer.

"Well, Lady Hightopp," Tarrant says with finality, "I cannot have you greeting our guests dressed like _that._"

"Is the tunic too much?" she dares, indicating the one garment that had never been removed entirely.

"Too Mamoreal," he corrects her with a soft kiss. Uncaring of his own state of undress, he kneels over a trunk that the queen's soldiers had delivered that morning. Opening the lid, he gently removes the accessory he seeks. With a wide grin, he turns and settles the mahogany-colored top hat on her head. Alice laughs and investigates the edge of the brim with her fingertips.

While she's distracted, Tarrant turns back to the trunk and removes the other item – the garment – he seeks. He pauses momentarily, recalling the weeks he'd spent at the loom working on this very fabric, and then offers it to Alice. With a confused smile, she accepts it and allows it to unfold.

"These are the Hightopp colors," she observes wonderingly.

"Aye," he says. He knows he _ought _to get dressed but he can't stop himself from enjoying Alice's reaction to the fullest before that.

She runs her hand over the garment, down the soft, white chemise and the bodice and then the skirt itself.

"There's more," he tells her abruptly, unfurling a scarf and placing a brooch – a silver top hat – upon the bed.

"Where... Tarrant, where did you _find_ your clan's tartan?"

He sits down on the bed beside her. "I didn't. I made it." He knows he could let the explanation die there, except he'd promised to tell her what he'd done to his fingers, so he holds them up and waggles them to catch her attention.

It works. With a flash of intuition, she accuses, "You let a _loom _do that to your fingers?"

Tarrant shakes his head slowly. "'Tis th' o'ly way teh make th' Hightopp colors fer someone who wasnae born inteh th' clan. Wool an' th' blood o' a Hightopp."

Alice gapes at him, at his fingertips which had been quite sore before she'd forced a bit of healing ointment on them the day before. Her hands brush over the fabric with new reverence. "_Your _blood is in this?"

"Every thread, _mogh'linyae _Alice."

Eyes wide, she observes, "But there's _yards _of fabric here!"

Giggling, he leans forward and presses his lips to her slack mouth. "It was my pleasure, my Alice, my Lady Hightopp of Iplam."

And he means it: his blood, his sweat, and his tears; his Alice is worth all that and more.

Shocked silence is her eloquent reply.

He glances down at the dress between them and asks, "Will you meet the clans with me... as Alice Hightopp?"

Still silent, Alice pulls the dress toward her, embracing it. She nods.

Cradling her face in his hands, he ducks beneath the brim of her new hat and brushes a chaste kiss over her lips. "Thank you."

When he moves to stand and locate his kilt, assortment of socks, shirt, vest, jacket, and sporran, her hand stops him. She presses her palm against his chest, over his Heart Mark, and _Speaks _through her heart line.

_Disbelief, love, awe, concern, shock, nervousness, adoration, devotion, amazement..._

Tarrant chokes on the potent jumble of emotions. "I'd so hoped you'd like it," he manages, smiling, brushing his fingertips along her cheek and jaw. And then he prepares to meet his fellow Outlanders, not as a mad-hatter-to-the-queen-in-need-of-a-wife, but as a Hightopp, as the Laird of Iplam with his Lady by his side.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2]


	82. Book 3, The Maigh, 1 of 2

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Warning: A whole lotta Outlandish ahead!

See my homepage (there's a link on my FFnet bio/profile) for the Glossary of Underland. It has words from Burton's movie, the original movie script, Lewis Carroll's books, AND my own original OPK Outlandish. All clearly marked as such. So, enjoy!

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* * *

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Chapter Three: The Maigh

[Scene 1 of 2]

It's going to take some getting used to: being called _Lady _Hightopp.

Alice tries not to roll her eyes at the irony of it; ten years ago, she'd escaped that very fate by turning down Hamish Ascot's proposal.

As Tarrant guides her away from the most recent arrival – a family of papermakers headed by a wizened old man called Jonnath Sheafment – Alice interlaces his fingers (where they rest on her left hip) with her own. Leaning close, she murmurs, "_Laird _and _Lady_ Hightopp? Of Iplam?"

He blinks at her. "Ye're surprised?"

"Well... yes. I thought..."

Part of her hopes he'll pick up on her thoughts – use that genius intuition of his to read her mind as he so often does. He doesn't.

"Ye thought...?" Tarrant prompts.

Alice sighs. "I thought it was a term of... endearment or some such," she reluctantly admits, feeling stupid enough to deserve a scolding from Absolem-of-old.

Tarrant's confused expression reforms into something resembling regret. "Ye di'nae need teh be concernin' yerself o'er it. 'Twon't be many responsibilities fer us outside th' hostin' o' the Maigh – _this _Maigh." He takes a breath and tightens his arm across her back. "Th' title has no meanin' beyon' th' clans. 'Tis only used because we still have th'Hightopp ancestral lands an' we're their host an' hostess."

Alice reads the truth in his expression and softly presses, "Earlier... the Bakerstones, was it? Clayton called you _The _Hightopp... Is that...?"

Tarrant rescues her from her verbal fumbling. _Oh, she hates it when she doesn't know how to ask the questions churning in her mind!_ He says, "I'm called _The _Hightopp nauw as I'm th' head o' Hightopp clan. By default as 'twere."

Alice ignores the next arriving clan – still a good two dozen paces off – and gently turns Tarrant toward her. She rises up on the balls of her feet and presses a warm, sure kiss to his lips. She's only a little startled by her own actions – she and Tarrant _rarely _kiss in public. But, then again, this isn't _public_, per se. This is their family, their _people._ And Alice already knows how affectionate and warm Outlanders are in general.

So no one seems to mind the display, most especially Tarrant, who smiles down at her, his eyes a luminous, rich green.

They greet and assist clan after clan with settling into the roomy white tents. Alice is introduced to Laird Huffin Bootsmith, the Master Cobbler from Galandonland with whom Tarrant's father had once attempted to encourage him to apprentice. She shakes hands with Gloriana Clefbar, a music mistress and fiddle-maker. She then finds herself making light conversation with a husband and wife called Paneshine who are accomplished artists in glassware.

The air buzzes with enthusiastic greetings and gossip as the clan heads exchange news, the artisans set out their wares, the children chase each other around the tents, and last year's smitten lads shyly approach and whisper to their lasses. The field – which had been so utterly peaceful before – is bursting with activity and Alice almost wishes she and Tarrant had been able to travel to one of the other Maighs.

"This is _wonderful_," she breathes, leaning close to his ear.

Tarrant cackles. His eyes sparkle. "Jus' wait 'til we finish supper. If'n I recall correc'ly, there's a wee bit o' dancing and singin' afteh-wards..."

Alice leans back a bit and gives her husband a once-over: he looks magnificently dashing in his kilt, waistcoat, and jacket. _Too _magnificently dashing. "There'll be no dancing with any of the lasses," she warns him. "Unless that lass is your wife."

His smile widens. "An' wha' wou' ye say if'n I told ye 'twas tradition fer the host teh dance with a lass from each clan?"

She smiles back. "Then, I'm afraid I'd have to honor the tradition of _the hostess_ dancing with _a lad_ from each of the clans."

"Ah, but, Alice there is no such tradition fer th' Lady o' th' Maigh!"

"There will be."

Tarrant gently curls his hands around her upper arms and growls. "No dancin' wi' anyone other than _me._"

"Likewise."

"Aye," he agrees.

And then, because it's well past brillig and the sun is beginning to set, Tarrant heads for the kitchen to start serving the stew they'd prepared from Thackery's recipe (with a pinch _less _salt than recommended) while Alice waits beside the Maypole, which had finally been erected with the help of two burly lads hopping to be taken on by a carpenter and an ironsmith. She watches the group she can just barely see approaching through the trees. And when they round the bend and step from the gloom of the Tulgey Wood, Alice feels a wry grin pull at her mouth.

"Lassling! How be ye?"

"You're late, Davon," she scolds him, nodding to his sister and her eldest daughter (who looks quite marriageable, now!), and three apprentice-aged boys.

"Och, an'ye still be rememb'rin' me name!" The man practically bursts his waistcoat seams as his chest puffs up.

"Forgetting it even as you speak."

"Ar, ye're such a fibber, Lassling!" As she escorts them to their tent, Davon glances pointedly around. "Where be yer laird an' husband at nauw? No'plottin' me demise, I hope!"

"So long as you keep your hands to yourself, you've nothing to worry about," Alice replies, surrendering to a wide smile.

"Och, nauw we come teh th'pickle o'it, fer how'm I teh ask ye teh dance if'n I mus' keep me hands teh meself?"

Alice laughs. "I'm afraid I don't know the answer to that one, but if you come upon a solution, please feel free to restate your invitation!"

He winks. "I'll be doin' tha', m'Lady Hightopp." Sketching a mocking half-bow, Davon turns away to begin directing the boys where and how to set out the various daggers, dirks, and bodkins that his family had brought to trade.

Drawn to the fine quality of the knives, Alice promises herself that she'll come by their booth again later when she has time and then makes her way toward the kitchen to help Tarrant hand out the traditional Eve-of-the-Maigh meal to their guests.

"Th' Irondirks?" Tarrant asks, ladling stew into two bread bowls before passing them to the young woman waiting beside the table.

Alice picks up the bread knife and starts working on hollowing out the loaves of bread for the next guest. "Yes. Everyone's here now."

Tarrant nods, ladles, hands over the second stew-in-a-loaf to the girl, then turns and murmurs intently to Alice, "An' he behaved himself, I hope."

Alice gives him a smug grin and a tight nod. "Only dancing with one man this Maigh," she reminds him and he leans over and kisses her briefly in thanks.

In drips and drabs, the clans send their children to retrieve dinner from the kitchen and, when the last one has been sent off with a serving in each hand, Tarrant passes a stew-filled loaf to Alice and they wander over to their own tent where Tarrant had set out the hats he'd made specifically for trading.

"Thank you, Alice."

In the midst of seating herself on the quilt, she glances at him and is surprised to see a certain... hesitance in his manner and bearing as he looks out over the crowded clearing. "What is it?" She asks, but she thinks she knows his answer, nonetheless: "Memories?"

He sighs and scoops out a bit of stew. She watches him take a bite and his eyes widen with surprise. "This is quite good!"

Alice grins and tastes her own dinner.

They absorb the sounds of the families and friends around them. And then:

"Almost every family here lost someone to the Jabberwocky on Horvendush Day," Tarrant says quietly. "I couldn't... couldn't have... not alone, I wouldn't have been able to... But, you're here, my Alice. My Champion. So, I could."

Alice places her hand on his arm and squeezes gently. No, she can't imagine having to face so many still-grieving families all alone, the awkward silence that would very likely follow the initial greeting and words of welcome. "It's fine," Alice replies, meeting his worried peridot eyes. "And what happened that day was not your fault."

And, with any luck, this festival will ease whatever strained relations still linger between the last born-Hightopp and the clans that had lost beloved members of their family all those years ago.

She reminds him, "This is a new beginning for all of us. Iplam is different. You're different... Everything will be fine," she predicts, then blinks with surprise when Tarrant leans in and presses a quick kiss to her cheek.

"You're right, of course!"

Looking resolved and cheerful about it, Tarrant finishes eating. Alice rushes a bit to keep up with him and then they begin to wander from tent to tent. Tarrant is greeted by the head of each clan and Alice finds herself trying her best to follow the thick burr of their spouse or clansman... or clanswoman...

"Ye'll b'lookin'f'rward teh th'D'claration o'Vows, then on th'morrow?" Clarisha Paneshine murmurs with a friendly smile.

Alice takes a moment to smile back and make sure she'd understood the woman's Outlandish correctly before replying. "I'm looking forward to everything – it's my first Maigh."

Clarisha nods. "Aye, w'ken, Lady Hightopp. Asked yer laird teh bring ye teh our Maigh two Springs back bu'he said th'twine o'ye 'twere tae busy teh attend. W'all been keen teh meet th'lass who cou'tame _tha' _one!"

Alice feels herself blush a bit – with both embarrassment _and _temper. _**She**__ hadn't "__**tamed**__"__Tarrant Hightopp! Of all the ridiculous insinuations!_ However, she resists saying exactly that. "It wasn't a question of taming but of waking up," Alice replies, enjoying the puzzled frown Clarisha gives her in reply to the enigmatic answer. "I would have liked to have attended your clan's Maigh," Alice continues before the moment can turn awkward. "I regret not being able to. The White Queen, you see, had been expecting the birth of her daughter, Thacie..."

"Oh, aye," Clarisha agrees. "'Tis our duty as women teh stand wi'each other a'those times an' help our sisters onteh th' birthin' bricks."

Alice nods, remembering. Indeed, Alice had been the one to wrap her arms around the queen and brace Mirana's elbows in the crook of her own, their hands tightly clasped, as the woman had stepped onto the special bricks meant for giving birth. The first time Alice had performed that duty, she'd been shocked to discover that women in Underland do _not _typically give birth lying down as women in London do.

"Why... not ask... Gravity for... a bit of... assistance?" the queen had panted when Alice had blurted out her observation.

Why not, indeed!

"From tha' look, m'lady, I'magine ye've had quite a bit o' practice wi' assistin' in births..."

Alice snaps her attention back to the glass-smithie. She chuckles. "I have."

"An' when will i'be yer turn, Lady Hightopp?" Clarisha asks with startling forthrightness. But, Alice knows, this is merely the way Outlanders are: there's no point in beating around the bush unless you're negotiating for something in particular. For that reason, Alice knows Clarisha is genuinely interested and curious. And, well, Alice would never blame anyone for giving in to their curiosity!

She glances around the field. "Soon, perhaps," she hedges. "The house is rebuilt. Perhaps it's nearly time for people to start living in it again."

"Glad teh hear it, m'lady." Laying a warm, strong hand on Alice's arm, the woman invites, "Ye'll send word if'n ye be wantin' help steppin' up teh the bricks, nauw, won'ye?"

"I will. Thank you for the offer, Mrs. Paneshine."

"Clarisha, m'lady."

"Alice, Madam Glass-smithie."

Dusk melts into night and Alice finds herself nodding thoughtfully along with Jonnath Sheafment's expert advice on the proper long-term storage methods of important documents – something she'll have to mention to Fenruffle with regards to the deeds office in Salazen Grum, what with it being so near the ocean and the air so humid at times! – when the sudden, sweet announcement of a chord from a fiddle bursts out across the clearing. Suddenly, the hum and hash of gossip and bartering dies down.

The fiddler strikes another chord... and then another... and another... And then a tin flute joins in with a brief, fleeting melody. A rawhide drum is struck. A pulse of silence rolls over the assembly. And then, as one, the musicians begin to play.

"May I have this dance, Lady Hightopp?"

Alice turns and smiles. "You may, Laird Hightopp."

Tarrant smiles and leads her out to the clearing, lit with standing torches and meandering fireflies, and swings her about in a dance that resembles a waltz only as much as Underland resembles London: the pace is fast; the turns are wild; the rush of excitement is undeniable. Tarrant easily dodges the children chasing each other through the dancing pairs and Alice keeps her eyes on his to avoid getting dizzy.

The song changes but never stops and Alice forgets to keep track of Time. When both she and Tarrant are starting to get breathless, he twirls her out of the way and toward their tent for a rest. As they sit, side-by-side, Alice watches young men and women, exchange surreptitious glances and then sneak away from their parents who, it seems, purposefully turn a blind eye. Alice glimpses hands being held and whispers being made in each other's ears in the shadows between the tents.

Again, Tarrant's left arm presses against her back and his hand cups her hip. She covers it with her own, her heart-line finger touching his. "They're so..." she murmurs.

Somehow, despite the music and revelry and screams of delight from the children, Tarrant hears her. She feels his hair brush her shoulder as he follows her gaze to those young, romancing couples. "Aye," he agrees.

"That was never us. At a Maigh, I mean," she says, her heart oddly aching for the memory of first love in the Outlandish custom that she and Tarrant had never known.

He brushes his lips against the brim of her hat. "Ours was better," he whispers.

Turning, Alice tips her head back a bit so that her hat brim conceals none of his expression from her. "You really think so? No regrets that _we _didn't happen this way?"

"None."

She doesn't ask him if it would have been better if she'd been born an Outlandish lass, if they'd met at a Maigh, if the trials and tribulations they'd endured had never happened. Those Ifs and Maybes don't matter; after all, they're _Here_.

"Together," she murmurs, brushing her thumb over his hand.

"Perfect," he agrees.

The nights stretches out; the children fall asleep wherever they happen to sit down for too long; barrels of Battenmead are opened and cups passed around. The music fades as the Clefbars join everyone in a second, late night feast of cheeses and toasted bread and dried fruit. Conversations turn toward more serious topics: politics, history, and rumors from foreign lands.

Again, she and Tarrant wander amongst the tents to speak with the clans and learn news from the other lands and the clan members who had chosen not to attend this year. With so many unfamiliar names – let alone Outlandish words she's never heard before – Alice can't participate much. Tarrant doesn't say much, either, as he often ends up explaining the details and history whenever Alice loses the thread of the conversation.

_The thread of the conversation, _she muses, amusing herself for a moment. Yes, with a milliner for a husband, she's sure he can help her manage to keep all those threads straight!

The fifth or sixth time – Alice has long since lost count – she drowsily lists a bit too far to one side, a warm arm wraps around her shoulders and pulls her against a Tarrant-scented chest. "Come teh bed, Alice," he whispers, urging her along. Alice is muzzily aware of stumbling a few steps before being swept off of her feet completely. She curls toward her husband – following his scent and warmth. The sounds of murmuring voices and distant guffaws and crackling torches fade from her awareness...

... and the next time she opens her eyes, she finds Tarrant next to her, snoring gently, his eyes hidden beneath the brim of his hat.

It's morning, she notes, and Iplam is quiet although a few people are moving about, mostly to and from the bath house or the kitchen. Turning, Alice studies what she can see of Tarrant's face. She bends down and winces in sympathy at the dark circles she sees beneath them in the shadow of his top hat.

Alice doesn't even bother to consider asking him what time he'd finally laid down to sleep. With only his perpetually broken pocket watch to go by, he can't possible tell her late – or how early! – he'd stayed up the night before.

"Sleep," she whispers and then, sighing, Alice stands and heads for the kitchen. As hostess, the least she can do is _help _their guests feed themselves.

* * *

Notes:

1. As for giving birth in Underland, using birthing bricks is not my original idea. I first read about this in The Red Tent (a novel by Anita Daimant). In biblical times (at least) this was the typical way women gave birth and, quite honestly, I think it makes more sense than doing so lying down, but having never attempted either, I can only speculate... (^_~)

2. A Glossary of OPK Outlandish is available on my homepage. Just head over to my very non-cluttered FFnet profile/bio for the link.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2: Scene 1 of 2]


	83. Book 3, The Maigh, 2 of 2

_****_

Warning: A whole lotta Outlandish ahead!

See my homepage (there's a link on my FFnet bio/profile) for the Glossary of Underland. It has words from Burton's movie, the original movie script, Lewis Carroll's books, AND my own original OPK Outlandish. All clearly marked as such. So, enjoy!

_**

* * *

**_

Chapter Three: The Maigh

[Scene 2 of 2]

Tarrant opens his eyes, finds himself alone, inhales sharply, glances about the clearing, and – not seeing his Alice in the immediate vicinity – sends out a stutter of panic along his heart line.

_"I'm fine,"_ the mark over his heart seems to say with its replying warmth.

He stands, still searching for her among the guests who are moving about freely. He judges the time to be mid morning by the position of the sun and the fact that banners and streamers have been hung around the clearing for the Declarations later in the afternoon. The younger children – those barely old enough to become baker's apprentices – are galumphing around the Maypole, gleefully tangling up the ribbons.

"Bit out o'practice with a-Maighin', Laird Hightopp?"

Tarrant limits his glare to a mere glance. "Irondirk. Wha' brings ye a-gimblin' o'er teh this side o' th'field?"

"'Twas lookin' fer th' Lady Hightopp," the man announces with _far_ too much enthusiasm for someone who had been very nearly _swimming _in his cups of Battenmead the night before. "She set me a riddle an' I was hopin' teh un-gyre it f'r her."

Tarrant scowls as the man lifts a pair of white gloves that look very much like the ones Nivens insists on carrying around with him wherever he goes... except this pair are considerably larger. Irondirk holds them out until Tarrant reluctantly accepts them.

"Th' answer teh th' riddle?" Tarrant prompts, indicating the gloves.

"Oh, aye. 'Twasnae all tha' difficult teh solve in th'end. Mayhap she was hopin' I would!" And with a wink, the man wanders off. Tarrant stares after him for a moment then glowers at the gloves in his hand. He turns and tosses them on the quilt next to the hats and marches over to the kitchen. Although he receives a rather nice slice of warm, buttered bread for his trouble, he doesn't find Alice.

So, again he Asks with his heart line: _"Alice...?"_

And again, she Answers: _"I'm fine!"_

The note of slight irritation might have made him smile any other day, but Tarrant remembers how easily his Alice finds trouble, especially in unfamiliar situations.

"... but 'twas so _dark_, Mam! Is tha'... _normal?_"

"Fer a heart line, I suppose so. W'don' see many o' those these days."

"'Cause only th' Hightopps use 'em?" a young girl asks her mother. Tarrant notices the damp bath linens over their arms and the bundle of – presumably – yesterday's clothes between them.

"Tha's righ', dearlin'."

The girl sighs. "'Twas so _pretty._ I wan'tae be Thrice a-Vowed jus' like th'Lady Hightopp one day!"

The mother opens her mouth to reply but Tarrant moves forward at that instant. "A-gehd mornin' teh ye, twine ladies," he burrs. "Were ye seein' m'Lady Hightopp jus' now in th' bath?"

"Aye, tha' w'were, Laird Hightopp."

Tarrant relaxes.

"How come yer heart line's red, m'laird?" the girl asks suddenly.

"Corea, _hush now!_"

"Nae, nae, 'tis al'righ'," Tarrant replies. "Me Alice isnae an Outlander. She's from Upland, ye see. An' th' folk up there has red blood."

The girl wrinkles her nose a bit at the odd idea of someone having red blood.

Her mother, on the other hand, looks a bit startled. "An Uplander? So 'tis true then; th' Queen's Champion isnae bein' o'this world?"

Tarrant frowns. He makes an effort to sound pleasant despite the _un_pleasant reminder of Alice's origins. _Will she ever want to go back?_ Tarrant says, "Aye, she isnae. But Underland chose teh bring her here, an' tha's surely sommat teh take under consid'ration..."

"Indeed, 'tis, m'laird. Gehd day teh ye. Come along, Corea."

For a moment, he merely stands there and watches them haul the laundry to their tent, but then he glances in the direction of the bath house where Alice is no doubt washing up. He sends a brief apology to her through his heart line, then takes himself off to bathe.

In some ways, this day – Maigh – is even louder and busier than the evening before. Tarrant helps the parents set up a few games to keep the younger children occupied and out from underfoot: He hides one of his new hats and gives the children a riddle to puzzle out (_"Wha' can be taller than ye, yet able teh be sat upon?"_) and sends them off on the hunt for the answer. He also devises a game of hat-tossing after a pair of bright-eyed girls have won the hunt by solving the riddle then locating and presenting him with the hat he'd hidden. The Hat Toss provides a good deal of entertainment for the children as they fling hats by the brim down a stretch of grass and mark the distance... and then demand rematches with the winners.

Tarrant keeps his eyes open for Alice, but with all the activity, all he manages is a glimpse of her as she's ushered into the Main House with several mothers. Tarrant sighs; no man will be allowed in that house _this _morning and he doubts Alice will be able to rejoin him before the Declaration of Vows is about to start.

He frowns as he struggles to remember what his Mam had said of the hostess's tasks. It had been so _very _long ago... He vaguely remembers something about helping the brides bathe and dress and... oh. _Oh!_ Tarrant glances worriedly at the house again. He's just remembered: the hostess is expected to give the girls advice of an... _intimate _nature concerning their wedding nights.

He winces.

_Oh, lad. Ye really should've remembered tha' bit a little earlier... Alice isnae goin'teh b'pleased wi'ye fer f'rgettin' teh tell her 'bout tha' duty!_

No, he doesn't expect she will be.

Lips compressed in a tight line of indecision, Tarrant hesitantly decides to apologize both now... and later. An instant after he sends his heart line message, Alice's confused query massages his heart. And as he stands there, trying to figure out how to explain her predicament though emotions, another pulse tickles his chest.

He twitches and blinks. Alice is... _laughing?_ Oh, she must be! He'd know the feel of her laughter anywhere! And then there's a caressing warmth around his heart and he knows that not only has he been forgiven, but also reassured.

Tarrant sighs. Of course Alice would be all right with advising the brides. Of course she would! His Alice can do anything! And she's never yet let at challenge defeat her! He giggles.

And he feels thankful for their heart line. He can't recall if his parents had ever used it they way he and Alice do, if it had deepened to the point where his Fa and Mam had been able to very nearly _converse _with it, but he suspects they hadn't. He suspects that the connection he and Alice have is _very _Special...

Tarrant startles as several lads shuffle past him carrying one of the long kitchen tables.

_Ah, yes, yes! The Declaration preparations!_

He launches himself into action, locating white table cloths and chairs. In the kitchen, men and women and some of the more responsible children are slicing, dicing, baking, and simmering the afternoon meal. Noticing Irondirk amongst them, Tarrant steers clear of the kitchen and asks a pair of bored-looking boys to help him untangle the Maypole ribbons.

The morning races by and suddenly the lads who will be wed to their lasses appear in their clan colors.

"A few words o' wisdom fer th' new husbands, m'laird?" the Master Cobbler asks him.

Tarrant blinks but recovers quickly. By the nervous – but not embarrassed! – expressions on the faces of the young men, Tarrant realizes that he's not expected to give advice on the wedding night, but on marriage in general.

Clearing his throat, Tarrant says simply, "Th' lass always has th' right o' it. So ye'd best be resignin' yerselves teh listenin' teh her from th' start 'r ye'll be regrettin' it sommat fierce later on!"

Master Cobbler Bootsmith laughs. "I see ye've learned tha' lesson well, Hightopp!" The older man steps closer to Tarrant. The lads, looking slightly more relaxed now, begin to talk amongst themselves or idly pace a bit in the field, waiting for their betrothed. "I ne'er thought I'd see ye so happy, lad. Be-giddies me heart."

"Thank ye, sir."

The cobbler grins. "Oh, how proud yer Fa an' Mam wou'be teh see ye nauw, lad. A grown man, a hatter, a husband, a happy man... ye ken tha's all they e'er wanted fer ye?"

Tarrant swallows, but it takes a good bit of concentrated effort to do so. "Mayhap they wou'd've wanted teh see me makin' shoes instead..."

The cobbler laughs. "O' course no', lad! Di'ye ken how _enpuff'd_ yer Fa was teh've his own son take on th' trade? 'Twas impossible teh talk teh th' man! Right _be-pride-ish_ he was o'er it!"

Tarrant feels his mouth open, eyes widen, and brows arc in disbelief. "But he..."

"Wanted wha'twas best fer his o'ly son, Tarrant. Ye've done the twine o' them right proud, ye have. Or I'll eat me smelly, dusty sole!" The cobbler winks, claps Tarrant on the shoulder, and moves back to the assortment of grooms.

"Right, ye lot! Le's have a las' look a'ye, nauw! Leorgan, mind yer hem, lad; if tha' kilt's straight, then _ye're_ a bit lopsided..."

Tarrant watches the lads fumble with their kilts and sporrans, getting themselves ready for the Declaration and their future wives. He watches and... he wonders if that might have been him, nervous and twitchy, waiting to wed his Alice on May Day... Another him, perhaps, and another Alice, in another Underland. Or perhaps, merely in a dream...

A hand brushes against his fingers and clasps them. Turning he smiles at Alice, lifts his arm and pulls her against his side with a sigh of contentment.

"You worried," she accuses.

"Aye," he admits. "If'n ye can be late, then I can worry."

He enjoys her breathy laugh. "I suppose that's only fair. One bad habit for another."

His smile turns apologetic. "An' if'n ye can be th' wrong Alice size, then I can f'rget teh mention certain duties o' th' hostess teh ye?"

"It's fine," she assures him, as he'd more or less expected she would. "It's all taken care of." Her smile is rather... _wide._

Tarrant Knows that smile!

"_Oh, bulloghin' boggletogs_," he murmurs, amused and yet apprehensive. "Th' poor lads won' survive their lass's demands, will they?"

"A few might," she replies optimistically.

Tarrant cackles and snorts so loudly he earns himself the Evil Eye from not a few of the anxious grooms. "Beg yer pardon," he murmurs, allowing Alice's hand, which is rubbing circles across his back, to calm him down.

And then he's released from their attention as the door to the Main House opens and, one at a time, the lasses emerge, take their Fa's arm and walk toward the Maypole and its fluttering ribbons. Tarrant leads Alice away from the center of the clearing and, leaning his cheek against the brim of her hat, watches as each lad steps forward and – on bended knee – declares his love and loyalty to his betrothed. Many of the lads had chosen to craft sonnets in Old Outlandish and Tarrant aches to translate them for Alice. When he draws a breath and prepares to whisper in her ear, she merely brushes her fingertips over his lips. He sees the tears in her eyes and knows she needs no translation. The moment itself and the cadence of the words speak for themselves.

And the lasses reciprocate. Pulling their husbands to their feet by their trembling, sweaty hands, they sing their acceptance. The lads twirl their lasses so that their wives now stand facing the crowd. The young men step up behind and to the left, take their wife's hand, and the music starts.

Tarrant watches as the seven newlywed couples begin the Wedded Step together. They move in concert – in utter and complete unison.

"How is this dance possible?" Alice murmurs. Tarrant can feel her awe radiating in his own chest. "Have they practiced before this?"

"No'ta'tall," he replies. "They learn th' steps from their Mam 'r Fa, but this is th' first and _o'ly_ time they'll dance it taegether."

"But they're... _perfect_," she argues.

"'Tis magic, my Alice."

She sighs happily. "I'll never learn everything there is to know about Underland."

Tarrant is very happy she sounds so pleased by that.

The Wedded Step concludes with a flourish from the tin whistle and then the fiddler strikes up a lively tune: the party has begun!

Younger couples take to the circle of dangers around the Maypole. Fathers clap each other on the shoulders and shake hands. Mothers hug and kiss their new sisters on the cheeks. The children make mad dashes for the banquet laid out on the long tables.

Noticing Alice's stillness despite the infectiously festive atmosphere, he turns and crouches a bit to see beneath the brim of her hat. "Alice?"

She gives him a trembling smile and Tarrant fishes for a handkerchief to mop up the tears on her face. "I'm sorry," she says. "I'm just being silly."

He watches as her hand drifts over her belly. He follows her gaze to where the families – now joined through their children's marriage – are coming together, laughing and crying and embracing.

"That will be us... some day," she whispers.

Tarrant gasps. He struggles with his own response to that, thankful that Alice hadn't Shared this feeling with him; he's not sure he could have handled _both_ hers and his own! He pulls her into his arms, lifts her chin, wipes away her tears, and agrees.

"Aye. One day..."

She rises up and he leans down and their hats bump as they kiss. Tarrant doesn't care. And, if the strength of Alice's grip on his shoulders is any indication, she doesn't care, either. He gives them both the kiss they need: warm, wet lips; sinuous, brushing tongues; hot, panting breaths; sharp, scraping teeth. No one interrupts them.

But when they part, knowing smiles on their swollen lips, someone shouts:

"Nauw, tha's how it's dun!"

Several people cheer, whoop, and applaud.

One daring soul shouts at the newlyweds, "Le's see wha' _ye young'uns_ can do, nauw!"

More cheers follow that challenge and, blushing, one groom – then another and another! – takes his wife into his arms and gives her a thorough kissing.

"Ours was better," Alice informs Tarrant as the crowd eggs the newlyweds on.

And just because he can't resist his Alice when she praises his skills in pleasing her, he kisses her again. This time no one notices. No one except Alice, that is. And, frankly, that's exactly how it ought to be!

There's dancing and drinking and eating and all sorts of merry-making until the sun beings to set. And then the new wives and their new husbands race between lines of cheering Outlanders toward the Main House and disappear inside.

"Where's tha' barrel o' Battenmead?" one woman hollers. "'Tis callin' me name!"

And then the drinking and feasting and reveling begin anew. And, just as the night before, the festivities do _not _stop, even when the air is filled with fireflies.

Tarrant sweeps Alice across the much-trampled grass in time with the lively jig, feeling more complete and _whole _and _healed _than ever before! She keeps her gaze on his and, despite the fact that it's _terribly crowded!_ Tarrant is beyond noticing anyone other than his wife in his arms.

"Oy! Yer attention, ye boisterin' lot!" a woman calls, banging a wooden ladle on one of the long tables. The music dies down and the dancers stop. Tarrant notices this a tad belatedly and draws a bit of ribbing for it:

"Aye, aye, we can see yer still madly in _luuuv_," the announcer says with a smile and roll of her eyes. "But nauw 'tis time teh gi'th' young'uns a chance!" She pauses for dramatic effect. And then: "All ye lasses who be looking fer a fella, open yer eyes an' yer hearts! 'Tis time fer th' Futterwhacken!" She turns toward Tarrant and Alice. "Yer ladyship? Ye'll be one o' our esteemed judges...?"

The cheers and general uproar of approval makes it impossible for Alice to decline. With a nod of her head, she joins the woman – Mrs. Bakerstone – at the long tables along with the eligible lasses.

"An' nauw, ye lads lookin' fer a lass, le's see yer Futterwhacken!"

Tarrant and the other married men step back into the crowd, clearing the area for unwed lads of all ages to step up and face the judges. Tarrant does his best to ignore the fact that Irondirk is among them.

The Clefbars strike up the music and the spectators clap, stomp, and whoop in time with the music. One by one, the men in the clearing give the dance their all, taking turns and striving to outdo each other. The judges cheer with the crowd when a lad manages a particularly difficult maneuver – a head spin, then a twist of his upper body, and finishing with a leap-and-tumble. Tarrant enjoys the show immensely. And he also enjoys the fact that, after the music has died down, Alice looks out across the clearing, finds him, smiles and winks.

_"Yours is better,"_ the twinge around his heart seems to say.

"An' nauw, w'shall consult!" Mrs. Bakerstone announces. The unwed lads in the clearing wait while the ladies gather together. There's a bit of gesturing that indicates particular techniques that impressed the lasses. Tarrant watches, as – for the most part – Alice merely nods along with the younger women and seems to endorse their preferences.

Long moments and yards of speculation later, the lasses resume their positions along the near side of the long tables.

"W'have decided," the masonry matriarch says loudly (no doubt with the aid of a bit too much Battenmead), "tha' w'have _three_ fortunate winners this year!"

_The number changes every year?_ Tarrant finds himself wondering. Oh, how he wishes he could more clearly recall the first Maigh his clan had hosted!

"Fylvin Sheafment!"

Unable to contain his victory, the lad in question leaps into the air not once, not twice, but over and over again!

Belatedly, Tarrant wonders what the prize is...

"Ollant Clefbar!"

The lad whoops and spins around, his kilt flaring just shy of an indecent level. Ollant turns back to the judges and just _grins._

A faint thrum of dread vibrates in the pit of Tarrant's stomach.

"And Devon Irondirk!"

Irondirk doesn't celebrate. No, the bloody bastard _smirks._

Tarrant's eyes narrow and his nostrils flare.

"An' nauw our lads may claim their prizes – a kiss from _each_ o' our _luvely_ judges!"

Alice's eyes widen. She turns toward Mrs. Bakerstone and squeaks, "A _kiss?_"

The woman merely smiles.

Tarrant considers doing something highly... _unpleasant _to her. After he breaks the winners' noses, of course.

_Remember teh use yer left hand this time, lad!_

"Aye," he growls.

"D'nea worry, Alice. _I'll_ b'gentle," Irondirk announces and the crowd roars.

Tarrant feels his heart race with Alice's alarm. He's a breath away from stepping out there and _forbidding any of those __**greizin'-grommers from TOUCHING HIS ALICE!**_

_"Stop."_

He blinks at the calm, controlled emotion stealing over his heart. He looks up and Alice is smiling softly at him.

She says, "But _I _won't be if those lips of yours come anywhere near _mine_, Davon Irondirk!"

The crowd guffaws. Men smack their thighs and women shriek with laughter. Tarrant tenses and wonders how this can't _not _remind Alice of that horrible trial she endured in Causwick Castle years ago...

He watches for the madness to take her, for her smile to stretch just a little too wide, for her brown eyes to turn black and vicious... but none of that happens.

"Step up, Young Sheafment, and claim yer kisses!"

The crowd counts as the young man steps up to the first lass who gives him a brazen smile and an eager kiss. Tarrant marks the boy's passage down the line of eight lasses before stepping – a bit reluctantly, Tarrant notes with satisfaction – in front of Alice. She stands tall and straight. Tarrant has seen that haughty expression on her face before although, thankfully, never directed at _him._ Still, she takes pity on the lad and presses a chaste kiss to his cheek.

The knot that had once been Tarrant's lungs and stomach relaxes enough for him to breathe. At least, until the second lad – bit older than the first – steps up to claim _his _kisses. Again, Alice doesn't give him the chance to kiss her on the lips. Tarrant manages a deep breath before Irondirk steps forward.

The man is nearly Tarrant's age, but that means nothing to Outlanders. If a lass is of marriageable age and desires to find a husband, there's nothing to stop her from choosing a much older, unwed man. Still, Tarrant wishes there'd been a way to bar the bastard from competing in the Futterwhacken altogether!

The man gives each girl a seemingly gentle kiss, just as he'd promised, but as he moves closer and closer to Alice, Tarrant feels his ire mounting. He can only guess what color his eyes are now and very nearly squeezes them shut to keep everyone from finding out how very Much the Idea of another _man _kissing _his Alice_ upsets him. He doesn't shut his eyes, however. Alice will find a way out of this. He Believes. He Knows. He Demands...!

Smirking with unrestrained glee, Irondirk moves toward Alice and stands opposite her.

"I hope ye don' think I'll le'ye ge'away wi'a tiny peck on th'cheek, m'lady!"

Alice glares. "I hope _you _don't think I'll let you walk away with that jaw _unbroken _if you try for more!"

More laughter rolls out over the field. Tarrant is too busy fisting his hands to notice.

"Ar, ye're still a righ'laugh, Alice!"

She gives him a tooth-filled grin. "Continue thinking that at your own peril, sir."

More sounds of merriment that Tarrant _barely _hears.

"Bu' I _like _livin' dangerously," the man burrs, leaning closer.

Mind blanking with the madness Tarrant hasn't felt in _years_, he tenses, feels the burning begin beneath his skin, behind his eyes... He is one Instant away from pulling that son of a shukm-lickering booly-geber away from his wife...!

And that's when it happens:

Suddenly, there's a rush of air, a powerful blast of wind that dampens the torches and scatters the fireflies. A shadow passes over the clearing as something large comes between the moon and the people below.

And then they hear the roar. A beast unfolds its massive wings. A crested head rises up, a jaw (full of wickedly sharp teeth) opens.

"_CHAMPION ALICE! I REQUIRE YOUR SERVICES IMMEDIATELY!_"

The shout destroys the silence, the moment of suspended terror and disbelief. People scream and scramble toward the shelter of the woods. Tarrant, however, does not.

As he sprints across the field, Alice pushes past Irondirk.

"What is it, Krystoval? Is it...?"

"Yes," the Jabberwocky replies. "You must come with me _now._"

"Th'lass isnae goin' anywhere wi'_ye_!" Irondirk proclaims, reaching for her.

Alice evades his arm easily and reaches out for Tarrant. In the next instant, he has her hand clasped in his and they're facing a shadowy monster with flashing red eyes.

"Champion Alice," the Jabberwocky tells the Outlander, "has promised me her assistance should I require it. I require it now!" Turning back to her, it says plainly, "Maevyn has spoken."

* * *

[End of Chapter 3]


	84. Book 3, Blood of the Jabberwocky, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Four: Blood of the Jabberwocky**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

Chessur, despite being a cat – and not just _any_ sort of common cat, but a _Cheshire Cat_, no less – takes great pride in the fact that he makes an absolutely _fabulous_ jabberwocky.

He glances at the nest, at the three hatchlings snoring-snorting-snuffling in their sleep and then gently pets the fourth he has wrapped up in his long, scaly tail.

"Chessur?" the creature mewls, almost like a kitten might.

"Yes, love?"

"How much longer?"

"I'm not sure. Soon."

The small jabberwocky – smaller than Alice's true Alice-size – snuggles deeper into the coils of Chessur's Jabberwocky tail. He knows it doesn't sleep. It hides. Chessur pets the youngling's still-soft scales carefully with the smooth, curved backs of his claws.

Yes, Chessur rather enjoys being a jabberwocky. Surprisingly, he rather enjoys looking after Krystoval's little ones: the next generation of Underland's dragons, keepers of the earth, bringers of life. He does not envy these creatures their duty to Underland, however. No, Chessur has no interest in creation, in the healing arts, in magic of that sort. It smacks of politics, he'd long ago decided. And Chessur is quite content to have nothing more required of him than companionship and stimulating conversation and... at times like these... a watchful eye directed at the hatchlings.

Hatchlings. Still, the four of them are so very small and young despite the five years they've aged. But, Krystoval _had_ warned him:

_"I am not sure how much time they will need to mature. It has been a very long time since a jabberwocky has been born and I did not pay attention to the passing of time when I had been a youngling..."_

At this rate, Alice and Tarrant will be knee-deep in _generations _of Hightoppsbefore these juveniles manage to grow strong enough to leave the nest!

Not that Chessur will miss them when they go. No, he can't imagine that he will. He's still a cat at heart, after all! And cats do not attach themselves to others. Not as a general rule... Well, not _lightly_ in any case!

He sighs and, briefly, almost wishes for the ability to breathe flame. It would certainly help to pass the time were he able to amuse himself with the various shapes and smoke rings he might create.

_For the love of Thrambleberries, how long does it take to interrupt a Maigh festival and abscond with a Champion and her husband?_

Chessur grins at the mental picture. For he's _sure_ that in no possible version of events does there exist one in which Tarrant _does not _accompany his wife – the mother of his could-be-son-or-daughter – to the Lair of the Jabberwockies!

_Yes, Alice..._ he muses, his cat's mind twisting and leaping fluidly from one thought to another. Yes, he knows Alice carries Tarrant's child. Had known it immediately. It had been in her changed scent. Just as Tarrant's (and also Alice's) had changed after they'd performed the first exchange of the Thrice a-Vow, Alice's smell had changed following the Ritual of Conception. Instead of smelling the usual Alice-with-a-touch-of-Tarrant smell, Chessur had also detected that plus the scent of a stranger. A new little person.

What puzzles Chessur is why neither Alice nor Tarrant have told _anyone_. Not the queen, who had smelled no different at all despite the fact Chessur is _sure _she would have been reeking of smug pride had she known. Not Mally or Thackery or Champion Leif... No one. They hadn't even bothered to inform Chessur!

_Ungrateful bipeds,_ he accuses, his teal eyes narrowed. Well, if a cat can hold his own against Thrambleberry-scheming jabberwockies, he can _certainly _outwit a stubborn Outlander and his paranoid Uplander wife!

And with the thought of that particular couple, Chessur mourns the lost opportunity to wear Tarrant's hat at their Choosing. Of course, he hadn't been invited. No one – _again with those two doing things __**their **__way!_ – had been invited. In fact, the Choosing itself had included only the two of them at Iplam. One day, Tarrant had been angsting and emoting like it was going out of style, and the next he'd been all smiles and giggles and riddles with his gaze unerringly locked on the ring on Alice's finger.

He'd been a pathetic sight, really.

Yet another reason Chessur is forever thankful that jabberwockies do _not _wed. Nor mate. Yes, being a jabberwocky is a blessedly simple existence when it comes to personal relationships. Companionship of the... _carnal_ sort is always dreadfully complicated and fraught with misunderstandings and insecurity and abject _misery_. Chessur has seen it often enough to know how true that conclusion is! It's a relief that he'll never be expected to engage in those sorts of acts with Krystoval. No, the only things the Jabberwocky has ever asked of Chessur have been companionship, conversation, the occasional hatchling-sitting, and – of course – the fetching of Thrambleberries. All of which are things Chessur had gladly given – and still gladly gives! – his most closest of friends. Well, with the exception of the Thrambleberries, of course. He and Krystoval seem to be at a bit of an impasse on that issue...

The small, warm body curled up within his long tail stirs again. "Chessur?"

"What it is, dearness?"

"I'm scared."

"Of what, child of the fearsome Jabberwocky?"

There's a contemplative pause. The baby shifts, sniffs the air, paws at the ground with its tiny claws. "I don't know. Something moves. It makes me feel... bad."

Chessur frowns. "Have you felt this before?"

"Sometimes. Lots of times. But I couldn't tell you before now."

Yes, Maevyn had been the last among its siblings to find the power of speech.

_"It will come,"_ Krystoval had assured them all time and time again. _"When Maevyn truly wishes for it, it will come."_

And, finally, it has!

"Krystoval will return soon," Chessur says, resuming the stroking motions of his claws against the tiny thing's back and Maevyn subsides with a gusty sigh. Luckily, the scales on his tail protect him from being burned by the white-blue flame.

Chessur finds himself contemplating Maevyn's odd claim: _Something moves..._ Of course, since it makes no sense whatsoever, his mind finds it a fascinating concept to contemplate... Nearly as fascinating as the impressive phenomenon that is a jabberwocky's memory. Truly amazing mental faculties, jabberwockies have. Able to recall – and with great clarity and detail – all the way back to the time spent in the egg... Remarkable! Although, Chessur can't say he envies them that skill. There are _plenty _of things he'd be _more_ than happy to forget if only...

And then the familiar burst of Jabberwocky-scented air fills the nesting site and Chessur looks up.

"Krystoval!" Maevyn squeaks and tumbles out of Chessur's loose grasp to clamor over to its arriving parent.

Chessur stands lazily and smirks as Tarrant slides down from Krystoval's back and then reaches up to help Alice down.

"No clan colors?" Chessur drawls as the Jabberwocky nuzzles Maevyn in affectionate greeting. "And here I thought we were interrupting a _party._"

Alice rolls her eyes. "You can't expect us to charge off into the unknown, on the back of the Jabberwocky, wearing a _skirt_ and a _kilt_, can you?" she rejoinders, hands on her trouser-clad hips.

"Won't your guests be offended with your abrupt departure?" he muses.

"Somehow," Tarrant replies, "I don'think they'll be noticin' our absence o'ermuch. No dou' they're fleein' back teh their homes as we speak."

Alice places a hand on his arm. "Davon might manage to keep everyone calm."

"I apologize for the poor timing," Krystoval says, a bit stiffly. "However, I was under the impression that you wanted to be notified as soon as possible when Maevyn was ready to speak."

"I did. I do. Of course this takes precedence, Krystoval. And, honestly, your timing could not have been better," Alice says with a curiously wry grin.

Chessur has to ask: "And what imminent catastrophe did our favorite, fully-grown jabberwocky circumvent?"

Alice snorts. "Me breaking an Outlander's jaw."

With a soft smile, Tarrant collects her fisted hand and busses her knuckles with his fingers. "I'd been considerin' th' nose, me-self," he murmurs, googly-eyed.

Chessur valiantly forces back a gagging cough at the utter _sweetness _of the exchange. "What fascinating parties you throw, Tarrant. Punches included, it seems."

The man's eyes flash with amusement and Chessur realizes, with no small amount of irritation, that he must have just made a rhyme... or a pun... or said something-or-other that a madman would find interesting.

Alice turns toward the Jabberwocky. "I'm so sorry I couldn't do anything for Maevyn... before. I hope that will change now."

"As do I, Champion Alice," Kystoval replies, cuddling the youngling.

"Alice?" A small, hesitant voice calls out. "Alice is here?"

Chessur turns and notices three pairs of bright eyes watching them from the nest. Glancing at Krystoval, Chessur grumbles, "Had to wake everyone with your grand entrance, didn't you?"

The Jabberwocky arches a brow and drawls, "Don't I always?"

"Maevyn?" Alice asks, approaching the Jabberwocky and its youngling.

"Yes, Alice?" is the hesitant reply.

"You know I've spoken to your siblings about what happened that day. The day you were hurt. Would you tell me what _you _remember now?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Chessur notices the subtle motion as each of the three hatchlings lower their heads in shame. Four years ago, they hadn't been able to speak of the attack on their nestmate. And, last year, when they _had _finally managed to find their Words, they hadn't been able to say much, for they hadn't _seen _much. It had been Maevyn who had wandered out of the nest and into the forest where the attack had occurred. Still, Chessur knows the silly younglings feel irrationally guilty over their inability to both help their sibling in its time of need _and _provide any useful information regarding the event itself. With a put-upon sigh, Chessur gathers the hatchings together under his fully-functional Jabberwocky wing and nuzzles their necks.

"I remember..." Maevyn begins, peeping over the Jabberwocky's claw. "I remember a... a cloth. Bright. Beautiful. It fell from the sky and I watched it dance over the edge of the nest. I... I followed it."

"It's all right," Alice replies, reaching out to pet Maevyn's stubby crest. "No one is angry with you. And we all know you're more careful now. Everything's fine."

Chessur watches this and, reluctantly, admits that Alice is going to make a very adequate mother. But, then again... she's had plenty of practice with looking after Tarrant, hasn't she?

Maevyn sniffles a bit and with a flash of muchness in its eyes, continues, "I went into the forest. I don't remember going so far. I was just following the pretty cloth. When I finally caught it... that's when the men came out."

"The men?" Alice prompts.

Maevyn buries its face in Krystoval's claws. "Two men. With knives and something else. A glass something. They hurt me with the knives and they pressed the glass against my scales. I think... I think they took my blood."

Chessur stiffens and glances from Alice to Krystoval and then to Tarrant. From the Outlander's tense posture, he knows Tarrant has grasped the significance as well.

"It's all right now, Maevyn," Alice continues, no doubt seeing that Krystoval is too enraged to speak softly. "You're safe now, aren't you? Krystoval and Chessur are here and you're safe."

Indeed, _that _day Chessur had been called to Mamoreal to assist the White Queen. Queen Mirana had wanted to know if Chessur would be open to using his evaporating skills to spy on Jaspien, just to be sure the worthless creature wasn't planning anything. Of course, he'd had to refuse, but not before agreeing to train a suitable replacement. And when Chessur had arrived back at the nest, Maevyn had been missing and Krystoval frantic, torn between leaving the three hatchlings behind to search for the youngling and remaining in the nest to keep its other children safe. It had only taken moments for Chessur to follow the scent of blood and fear and locate Maevyn, a few licks of his tongue to purify and close the wounds, but Chessur had been too late to catch the beasts that had done that horrible thing.

And now, to find out that those beasts had, in fact, been _men...!_

Well, as a cat, he shouldn't be surprised.

"Tell me about the men," Alice asks gently.

Maevyn mewls. "They covered my eyes. Didn't see. Couldn't see! It was so dark!"

"Shh... open your eyes Maevyn. It's not so dark now and your family is here."

The hatchling does. "They had names. Men with names."

"What were their names, darling?"

"Osh... Oshtyer. And Vale... Valereth."

The silence following that announcement is telling.

With a visible effort, Alice gathers herself, folds up her anger and puts it away. "Did they say anything else? Where they were going? What they were going to use your blood for?"

Maevyn closes its eyes and shakes its head, curling into Krystoval's chest. The Jabberwocky covers the baby's shaking body with its other claw and strokes its scales just as Chessur had done earlier.

"No more, Alice," Krystoval says gruffly.

Alice nods. "It's fine. It's enough."

"Chessur, if you would take Champion Alice and her Hightopp back to Iplam?"

The cat-who-is-also-a-jabberwocky nods. Krystoval moves toward the nest and curls up with Maevyn. The other three hatchlings toddle out from under Chessur's wing and climb into the nest as well, snuggling together.

Chessur experiences an odd twinge in his chest at the sight. If he didn't know better, he'd say he regrets not being able to join Krystoval in cuddling up with the hatchlings, but, as a cat, he would never want such a thing!

Turning back to Alice – who looks far too _knowing _for Chessur's peace of mind – and Tarrant – who also seems a bit too smug at the moment – he growls, "Well, do you want a ride back to Iplam or not?"

"We're waiting on you," Alice tells him.

"An' I hope ye're better a'flyin' nauw than ye were durin' th' Trial o' Threes," Tarrant muses, with a glance at Alice.

"I am," Chessur replies shortly, but not wanting to risk getting vomit and bile between his scales addresses Alice, "but if you've brought whatever it is that keeps you from becoming nauseous, then I suggest you ingest it now."

Alice looks startled. "You know I...?"

Chessur gives her a droll look. "Honestly, did you think my nose would tell me otherwise? At a more convenient time, Alice, you and I shall have a talk about the futility of keeping secrets from me, but for now, a bit of your nausea remedy, if you don't mind."

With a sigh, Alice pulls a small, leather pouch from her tunic pocket and Chessur catches a whiff of Himoha flower. "And, I'm curious, Alice," he continues as she places one shriveled petal on her tongue. "Just how did you procure _that _pregnancy aid without the assistance of the queen?"

"What makes you think I didn't?"

Chessur lowers himself to the ground and allows Tarrant to climb onto his shoulders. "Please," he says with a roll of his eyes. "If the woman were any more in the dark, it'd be midnight at Mamoreal every hour of the day."

Alice admits, "I helped Mirana with her children, you know, so I knew about the Himoha flower. And when she speculated that, were Tarrant and I to start a family, all I'd have to do is just reverse the dosage from one blossom to—"

"To one petal, yes. What with your contrary Uplander body," Chessur finishes as Tarrant pulls Alice up and in front of him. Chessur unfurls his wings and pauses to check just one more time: "Is your stomach _quite _settled, Alice?"

"I'm fine. I won't get sick all over your beautiful scales, Chessur," she promises.

Deciding that's more than sufficient as reassurances go, the Chessur mutters as he gives his wings an experimental flap, "At least Krystoval let you both put trousers on..."

"Ye'd have an objection teh carryin' a man in a kilt?" Tarrant drawls.

Chessur grits his teeth at the Outlander's obvious amusement. "A kilt and naught else beneath it," the cat replies. "Yes, I'd have an objection. One, at the very least."

"So would I," Alice contributes.

And before they decide to abuse his delicate ears with an elaboration on that thought, Chessur launches into the air.

* * *

Notes:

1. The Jabberwocky (and its offspring) are asexual. That means they are not boys, nor are they girls. They have no gender. Hence, Chessur and Krystoval are NOT in a sexual relationship and I refer to the jabberwockies as "it"s. "The Jabberwocky" is, of course, Krystoval. When I use the lowercase spelling - jabberwocky - I mean the species in general or another jabberwocky. OK. I hope that's clear.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4: Scene 1 of 2]


	85. Book 3, Blood of the Jabberwocky, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Four: Blood of the Jabberwocky**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Alice reaches for Tarrant's hands and slides down from Chessur's shoulders. Her feet hit the ground and she winces at the roll her now-tender stomach makes. Krystoval's flying had been _much _smoother.

"Thank you for the ride back, Chessur."

He pointedly inspects his still-pristine scales. Ascertaining their spotless condition, he replies, "My pleasure, Alice."

"I'll jus' step ou' an see how many o' our guests 'ave taken Irondirk's assurances teh heart," Tarrant murmurs, brushes his fingertips across her cheek and then makes for the clearing. Alice can still see movement beyond the trees, so she knows that either some have decided to remain _or _they simply haven't finished packing yet.

Eager to put off rejoining the crowd, Alice turns back to Chessur and smirks. "You know, I don't remember you caring so much about the condition of your scales before you got this new set."

Chessur glares at her. "How would _you_ like a bit of jabberwocky spit in _your_ hair, Champion?"

"About as much as you'd like to have my lunch revisit us on your fancy scales. Speaking of which, Krystoval let you learn this shape?"

Chessur clears his throat. "In a way. The Jabberwocky was having a bit of trouble with the laying of the eggs and I suggested a massage might... _Why_ am I telling _you _this?" he suddenly demands.

"Because I asked? And I'm curious?"

"You're _nosey_," he corrects.

"And you've been secretly hoping for an opportunity to tell me how exactly you learn a shape, since – somehow – I never see you on Tarrant's birthday."

"Ah, yes. The one day a year when it's perfectly acceptable to embarrass someone as much as possible..."

"So?" Alice asks. "How do you do it?"

Chessur leans toward her and grins. Motioning her closer with a claw, his smile widens until it stretches nearly all the way up to his crest. "By doing what cats do best," he answers blithely.

Alice bemusedly shakes her head. "What? Cough and vomit up bits of hair from their gullets?"

"_No!_" Again, Chessur clears his throat. "By _rubbing _against a body, Alice. And, when the acquisition of... _finer _details and... _textures_ is required... by _licking_. A cat's tongue is _very _sensitive, you know."

Alice resists covering her face with her hands. Just _barely_. "I almost wish I didn't," she replies. "_Know_, that is." She glares at Chessur out of the corner of her eye. "If I weren't absolutely sure that you've given away your soul to the Jabberwocky, I'd probably be jealous."

"Jealous of me for having rubbed and licked Tarrant?"

"_Years _before I found the opportunity to do so myself, yes."

Chessur shudders. "I... did not need to know that. Fairfarren, Alice."

"Wait! Will you be stopping by Mamoreal to alert the queen?"

"To your disturbing Tarrant-licking tendencies? I don't think so... Not in the _near _future, at any rate."

She huffs, "No!" Honestly, Alice doubts Mirana would be very surprised by the revelation should Chessur elect to share it with her. But Alice decides she'll let Chessur traumatize himself with that whenever he gets around to bringing the subject up with Her Majesty. She clarifies, "I meant about Oshtyer and Valereth."

Chessur considers her with his vibrant eyes. "Again, no. You'll be returning to the castle shortly. That will be sufficient. I may stop by later... to see what's being done about the situation."

"You're more than welcome to. Fairfarren, Chessur."

Chessur turns to once more take to the skies and, stomach now mostly settled, Alice forces herself to take a step in the direction of Iplam. Fates only know what sort of mess is waiting for her there. No doubt a series of ingratiating apologies will be required and she'll no doubt end up having to explain the informal treaty of friendship between the White Queen and the Jabberwocky and then the lot of them will publicly ostracize both her and Tarrant for even considering befriending such a beast...

In short, this should be only slightly more bearable than having to remove that sewing needle with which Tarrant had once managed to skewer his thumb.

She cringes at the memory.

Nearing the end of the sheltering trees, Alice takes a deep breath and wades out into her and Tarrant's doom...

Silence falls over the milling crowd when Tarrant pauses, turns, and spears her with his gaze. At first, she wonders if their guests have gone so far as to organize a lynching, but then she notices the rich, lovely green of his eyes and the broad smile on his face.

She nearly runs smack into a young boy who tumbles into her path, breathless, and pants, "C'n I ride th' Jabberwock next, Lady Hightopp?"

Alice gapes. "What?" Dear Fates on plates, Kystoval would _not _be happy to be spoken of as if it were nothing more than a pony at a fair! "Um... I'm afraid the Jabberwocky has gone home now," she manages when the boy repeats his insane request.

Several children whine and pout upon hearing that.

She glances up at Tarrant again and she can see him biting a knuckle to keep from bursting out laughing. She turns to the man who is, undoubtedly, the culprit of this insanity. "What did you tell everyone, Davon?"

The smithy smiles, showing off his crooked, broken, stained, and missing teeth with his usual brashness and cheer. "Why, abou' th'Trial o'Threes, o'course! Tha' _our_ Lady Hightopp met th'Jabberwock on th'battlefield an'walked away wi'it under her thrall!"

Alice... _gapes._ "You... you said that..."

"So, nauw everythin's al'righ' an'th' Jabberwock has an int'rest in death an' destruction nae longer," he concludes with a flourish.

Although Alice knows _that_ much is true... Still! Davon had made Krystoval sound like a tame house cat! Of all the...! She's gathering herself – and her thoughts – for a good lecture on that very point when a movement draws her attention. Tarrant lifts his chin a bit, smiles at her – his grass-green eyes sparkling – and _winks._

Alice swallows back her ire and irritation. She sighs. "That wasn't for you to tell, Davon," she grumbles, wondering how long it will take the Jabberwocky to hear of _this._ Well, maybe she'd better tell it herself rather than wait around for the gossipmongers to do it for her via Chessur. And she'd better tell the queen as well. If megalomaniacs like Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer had abducted her and the queen simply because Alice had been an undefeated Champion with a heart line, what good could possibly come from Alice's supposed control over the Jabberwocky becoming public knowledge?

However, that is a battle for another day. Now, other issues must take precedence.

"Irondirk," she says decisively, "a word, if you don't mind?" As she passes Tarrant, she gives his arm a squeeze then strides over to and steps inside their tent, leaving the curtains open.

"Nauw, Alice, d'nae be upset a'me f'r speakin'th'truth," Davon gently scolds her, looking highly amused with himself, as always.

Alice give him a droll look. "What you've done, you've done and there's no undoing it now," she replies. "However, that was not what I wish to speak to you about."

He considers that for a moment and then his expression brightens. "Be this concernin' th'answer teh yer riddle?"

Alice has to think about that for a moment before she can even recall _giving _the man a riddle. Although it had only been yesterday, it seems so much further in the past!

Before she can tell him to just forget about the blasted riddle – which hadn't really been a riddle at all but a clever way of refusing absolutely to dance with him – he remarks, "Och, I _though'_I couldnae trus'Th'Hightopp teh giv'i'teh ye..."

_Oh, botheration, let's just get this out of the way once and for all!_

"Give what to me?" Alice asks with a noticeable lack of enthusiasm.

"Th'gloves! Ye said if'n I cou'find a way teh dance wi'ye wi'out layin' a hand on ye..."

Alice rubs a hand over her face as if she could scrub the exasperation she feels from her skin. "As... genuine as your effort seems to be, you've answered the wrong riddle—"

"Have I nauw?"

She can't help the smirk she feels twitching her lips upward. "Most definitely. And once you figure _that _out, I expect I'll be back in Mamoreal." At least, she very much hopes to be! "Now, are we finished with this nonsense? As the Queen's Champion, I would like to make a formal request for assistance."

And in that instant, the somewhat puzzled, unendingly amused weapons-smith vanishes. His expression hardens, his eyes lose their shine, his shoulders tense. "Wha'b'ye an'th'White Queen requirin' o'me, Champion Alice?"

"Not only of you, but of anyone you feel might welcome the challenge."

He nods once and she continues:

"It's in the best interests of their majesties that two individuals be located as expeditiously as possible – a former viscount and lord I believe you were once acquainted with? Valereth and Oshtyer."

"An' wha's bein'th'price on their heads, Champion?"

Alice holds up a hand. "There will be a reward offered to those who deliver either or both to Salazen Grum or Mamoreal alive. _However,_ should that task prove... impossible for one reason or another, information on their last-known whereabouts would also be welcome."

Davon scoffs. "'Tis nae sword-work ye're askin' f'r, bu' reconnaissance."

"Exactly." She steps forward and, eyes narrowed, informs him, "It's not often the White Queen asks favors of her citizens, but when she does, she does _not _forget those who provide honest assistance. And the White Queen knows the value of good information well."

"M'be so..." he drawls, a speculative gleam in his eyes. "Ye're thinkin' those twine slithy, shrifty greizin'-grommers'll b'hidin' sommere in th'White Realm?"

"I know they've passed this way before, about four years ago. From there, I do not know where their trail leads. But, they would have needed clothing and shoes... and had probably had to steal them. I'll be checking the records of reported criminal acts at Mamoreal, but perhaps the thefts were so small the injured parties felt it was too much of a bother to file a claim..."

"Aye," Davon agrees, squinting in thought. "An' tha'will b'how we'll find th'bastards. No'from th'records, bu'from askin'about..." He glances out the open doorway of the tent toward the oddly quiet festival scene beyond. "While there're so many here, I'll b'gettin'started on those questions," he tells her. A smile Alice recognizes from long, long ago curves his mouth upward. "An' I'magine Argur's feelin' a mite bored wi'shipwork..."

"Choose anyone you think would be an asset to your quest. The reward will be distributed generously amongst your team members, no matter the number." Alice pauses, then adds, "So long as it's within reason. Send word to me as you learn it. I may be able to send assistance that will help you pick up their trail faster."

Davon scowls. "Assistance won'b'necessary, Champion. We can—"

"Accepting the assistance I _might _send will not in any way interfere with the reward."

"Ah... well, then, we're in accord."

Alice nods.

In the next moment, Davon's eyes are twinkling at her again and he's grinning at her with a complete and utter lack of hesitance despite the horrid condition of his teeth. "Are ye sure I di'nae answer yer riddle, Lassling?"

"I'm sure," she replies flatly. She almost wishes him luck, but – in the end – decides it's best not to encourage him. With a gesture, she invites him to leave and then Alice steps out behind him. It takes only a few moments for her to locate Tarrant – still dressed in his trousers with his broadsword slung across his back. Although, from his position, she knows he'd been keeping an eye on their tent, his attention is mainly focused on the Irondirks' display of wares.

"All done," Alice says, coming up beside him.

"Ah, excellent." He turns and gives her a relieved smile. "Shall we get changed, then?"

Alice wanders with him in the direction of the guest house, where they'd quickly stepped out of their tartans and thrown on their Mamoreal clothing for the journey to the Jabberwocky's nest. Tarrant opens the door, then briefly surveys the inside before stepping back and allowing Alice to precede him.

The door closes and Alice feels Tarrant's hands on her arms. But rather than pull _her _into _his_ embrace, he steps into hers, wraps his body around hers, and presses his lips to her forehead. "Alice..." he murmurs and she recognizes that worried tone.

She sighs. "Do you happen to know of any other uses for jabberwocky blood?" she asks on a whisper, dreading the answer.

His arms tighten around her shoulders. "O'ly the one ye're aware of, my Alice."

The moment stretches taut as they both consider the fact that if someone were to feel a desire to travel somewhere _within _Underland, making the journey on foot would be far easier and far safer than stealing the blood of a jabberwocky. Unless, of course, it isn't Underland a person wanted to travel to...

Her fingers curl tighter, wrinkling his jacket, and her fists press against his waist. Pressing her cheek to his shoulder, Alice says on a breath, "I don't think Irondirk is going to find either Oshtyer or Valereth. I think there's a reason they attacked Maevyn. I think..." Her throat suddenly slams shut and she stares into the darkness of the cottage.

Tarrant speaks with his body: curling his arms around her even tighter, pressing his jaw against her temple. In the darkness, they hold onto each other, hold back the oppressive pressure of the unknown, and try not to acknowledge what it is they're really doing here in the dark: they're waiting.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4]


	86. Book 3, And the Earth Moves, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Five: And the Earth Moves  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

Mirana much prefers the tasks of motherhood to those of sovereignty. Alone in her woefully silent office – even Dalerian and Leivlan are oddly quiet in their bassinets! – Mirana leans her head in her hand and struggles through the wordy and phonetically spelled, curving and curling script typical of Galandonland correspondence. It's a bit difficult to tell, but she _thinks _Hornsaver is requesting a renegotiation of their trade agreement with regards to Galandonland tea and Witzend wine. Apparently, Spring is not smiling upon them this year and their crop will be much reduced... Either that or Hornsaver is attempting to compare bumblebees and sunshine to ship sails and seas and is wasting her time with six pages of metaphors.

With the mood she's in at the moment, Fates of Underland help the unicorn lord if he really _had _sent her a small novel's worth of meaningless prose!

"Your Majesty?"

Mirana looks up and smiles. "Alice, welcome back! And, for the love of buttered fingers, how many times do I have to tell you—"

"Mirana," Alice gently interrupts her with a sad smile.

The queen watches as Alice closes the door behind her and approaches the desk. "What's happened, my Champion? Was the Gathering...?"

"Fine. The Gathering was a fantastic success." Mirana watches as Alice slouches in her chair and fidgets. She can nearly see the storm of words that her Champion is fighting with through the windows of Alice's eyes.

"Then tell me what has happened?"

"Maevyn spoke."

Two words. Just two words, and yet Mirana finds herself utterly captured by them. In her chest, her heart feels as if it has stopped beating. "And...?"

"It was Valereth and Oshtyer. They took..."

"... the blood," Mirana finishes, numb. As it has so many times before, the clock measures the passing of their silence and contemplation. "Alice," Mirana finally gathers enough fortitude to say, "we must..."

"I've already assigned Davon Irondirk the task of investigating their whereabouts. He's to recruit assistance from amongst his former comrades and send word periodically. With your permission, I'll ask the Bays to help sniff out their trail."

"You've still..."

Alice nods. "Yes, I've kept their boots. If there's a trail anywhere in Underland, Bayard, Bayne, Bayto, Bayshe, and Baylia will find it."

"Yes, I don't doubt they will." _If _there's a trail to be found. Of course, Bayelle has the most sensitive nose, but with her expecting the next litter of pups, it won't do at all to send her out on long distance treks!

"Mirana, are you familiar with the Crafter's Core?"

The queen blinks at the sudden change of topic. "Oh, yes, of course, Alice." Seeing Alice's irritated expression, the queen adds, "I'm sorry. That was a bit abrupt. Why do you bring it up?"

Alice draws a deep breath and Mirana braces herself for another round of Uplandian logic.

"The attack happened four years ago. Valereth and Oshtyer were banished three years before that. That's a long time to go without shoes. And new clothing. And whatever other necessities they'd need. With your permission, I'll ask King Dale to assist me with going through the records of thefts in the realm."

The queen nods, following everything rather easily thus far. "And what does that have to do with the Crafter's Core?"

"Well, if we find an occurrence of theft that seems as if it _may _have been perpetrated by Valereth and Oshtyer, I'd like to contact the rightful owners and, through them, learn who had crafted the stolen item so that they might—"

"Ah, yes! So the master might Call the item back to them using the Crafter's Core! A brilliant idea, Alice!" Briefly, the queen debates instituting this practice for _all _reports of lost or stolen goods, but... no. No, it would be _most _unfair to the craftsmen to expect them to go galumphing about Underland in search of their customers' misplaced property. Why, they'd never have time to craft another thing again! But, in _this _instance, when the consequences of _not _locating Valereth and Oshtyer might be very dire, indeed... Yes, perhaps this once...

"I approve completely. Please let Dale know your thoughts. He'll be most happy to assist you in whatever way he can."

"Thank you, Mirana. However, we must also consider the possibility that someone might not go to the trouble of reporting a missing jacket or a pair of last year's boots. And that's where Irondirk will step in; I've asked him to visit villages and homesteads and inquire about missing items."

Mirana frowns. "This quest... if there are no fresh trails for the Bays to follow... this may take quite an investment of time," the queen acknowledges.

Alice nods and sighs heavily. "I know. Irondirk and his team will expect a reward for their efforts. I haven't promised anything specific yet, but I've told them they would be generously compensated. I hope I haven't..."

"No, no, that's fine. Just fine. Perhaps they'd accept a title?"

Alice's grin is wry. "I'm sure they've something much more... practical in mind."

"Ah. Well, I shall ponder it and ask your opinion of whatever alternatives I come up with."

Alice nods. After a moment, she says in a soft tone, "It makes sense to me now, the Crafter's Core, I mean. Tarrant has always been so protective of his hat... Did you know his father made it? Even wove the fabric used on it? And his mother crafted the hatpins for it? It was a gift. For completing his apprenticeship and being promoted to your service."

"Ah, I'd nearly forgotten," Mirana replies, leaning back in her chair and smiling. "Eiam Hightopp _was _rather gifted with the loom. And Lezlia was one of the very _best _silversmithies in all of Underland..."

Alice continues, expression contemplative, "I always assumed Tarrant had made it himself. If that were the case, he would be able to find it anywhere were it lost or stolen or... _borrowed._ But he can't can he? Only his father or mother would be able to use the Crafter's Core to Call it..."

Mirana nods. "Yes, as I understand it, the connection that is formed between the creator and the creation is never passed on to others, even members of the same family or direct descendants."

"So, if it were to be lost, he might never be able to find it..." she muses and Mirana watches Alice's expressions.

"Are you perhaps remembering a time when Tarrant placed you on his hat and threw you across a river to safety?" Mirana dares to speculate. She knows the story of Alice's return and Tarrant's sacrifices for their – _his_ – Champion very well.

Alice hums through a breath of laughter. "No, actually. I was thinking of a moment in which I returned it to him." She shakes her head. "I couldn't imagine him being without his hat, but I had no idea what it would mean to him..."

"Is it any wonder the man fell in love with you even more deeply, Alice?" Mirana replies. "How could he not? Not only had you returned to Underland, not only had you dared to attempt his rescue from the Red Castle, but you'd given him back the last lingering essence of his parents." The queen smiles gently. "Whom, I know for a fact, he loved very deeply."

"That's the only way he knows how to love," Alice whispers through a wide smile and misty eyes.

Suddenly, Mirana notices how far they've strayed into very personal territory... and without expressed permission from the person to whom that territory belongs! "Oh, I'm sorry, Alice. I should not have spoken so freely without Tarrant's consent! Have I upset you?"

Alice shakes her head and presses her fingers to her eyes as if she expects that will push the tears back to where they'd come from. "No, no, it's fine. I shouldn't have brought it up, but I was so... affected by... and curious... and I didn't want to make him think about the past... I'm sorry," she says finally, drawing a deep breath before lowering her hands. "I'm fine. Just tired. The Maigh was..." She visibly flounders in search of an adequate description.

Mirana smiles. "Yes, so I've heard." Then, clearing her throat, Mirana continues, "But, for now, back to the issue at hand."

"Yes," Alice agrees, sitting up straight. "Irondirk will be looking into it, as will I with the assistance of the king. I'll send out the Bays as soon as they can be ready to go."

"As always, an excellent plan, Alice. Thank you."

"That's what I'm here for," the Champion replies, standing.

"And I thank you for that, Alice."

Alice opens her mouth to reply but closes it again.

"What is it?" the queen asks her friend with curiosity.

"Something maudlin. Put it out of your mind," Alice softly requests.

"Very well. I shall do my best."

The queen stands as Alice moves toward the door. She drifts toward the bassinets and looks down upon her youngest sons, still sound asleep.

"Mirana?"

Looking up, the queen notes that Alice is standing at the still-closed door. "Yes?"

"_Are _there any other uses for jabberwocky blood?" she asks very quietly.

Mirana feels her heartache at Alice's stressed expression and slowly shakes her head.

"And what does it do exactly? Will it give you anything you wish?"

"No. It does not give things. It bestows the power of Movement."

"To other lands, other worlds?"

Mirana nods and then, hesitantly, adds, a warning in her tone, "And through Time itself, although that is a very closely kept secret."

Horror follows Alice's expression of comprehension. "Which is why, after I drank it – after slaying the Jabberwocky – I returned to Upland only moments after I'd left?"

Mirana nods. "I would expect so. As I've mentioned before, Time passes differently in Upland. And I doubt it would be so accommodating. Yes, I think you wished yourself back to that place and that time because, quite frankly, you hadn't thought to wish yourself hours or days into the future."

Alice's mouth works for a moment.

Seeing the fear in her Champion's gaze, Mirana hurries to assure her, "It would be nearly impossible for either of them to have learned of the blood's _true _Power, Alice." And if they had then it would likely be far too late to stop them from fiddling with Time at this late juncture. In fact, if they _had _chosen to travel into the Past, things would have already changed and Mirana and Alice would likely _not _be having this discussion at all!

The queen continues, "I will do _whatever _I can to help you and Irondirk locate Valereth and Oshtyer. But, please, Alice, tell no one that they may have used jabberwocky blood to escape."

"I won't say anything," she promises thickly. Alice takes a deep breath and then opens the door.

Mirana watches her go and, turning toward her sons, muses:

It is a conundrum, indeed; what would have driven Valereth and Oshtyer to seek out the blood of a jabberwocky? And at such great personal risk? If they had intended to move through Time and into the Past in order to alter events in their favor, then the changes would have already been wrought! But what could they hope to gain by traveling into the unknown Future?

It must be a Place, then, that they'd intended to go to and not a Time. This thought is a more comforting one to contemplate and yet also not. For _if _Valereth and Oshtyer have used the jabberwocky blood to escape Underland, how could they possibly be a threat to the White Realm, to Shuchland, or to Galandonland now? But, then again, is it not her responsibility – at least in part – to ensure that Underlanders do not cause harm to Those in Other Worlds?

Mirana sighs. Yes, Valereth and Oshtyer must be located. Whatever trouble they are causing must be dealt with. She despises the thought of bringing them back to Underland – oh, how wonderful it would be to just ignore the issue entirely! – but she knows it must be done.

And if it _must_ be done, then it _will _be done, which means...

Mirana reaches for the bell that will call her attendants. She'll need help transporting her sons' bassinets up to the Far South Tower, where Absolem still oversees the Oraculum.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5: Scene 1 of 2]


	87. Book 3, And the Earth Moves, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Five: And the Earth Moves  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

_This is my fault._

Alice slides the sharpening stone over the curved blade of her scimitar. The gravely, scraping noise cuts into her soul without leaving a mark on her skin. She ignores the singing birds, the enthusiastic breeze, the full-to-bursting bunches of blossoms weighing down the boughs and branches of the cherry trees, ignores the sounds of life from within the castle kitchen. Alice sits on a bench in the kitchen garden and considers all of the ways she is failing – and has failed – in her duties to Mamoreal and its queen.

_I ought to be out there with Bayard and his pups. I ought to be helping Davon and Argur and the others. I ought to be doing __**something!**_

But she knows she can't. She knows what Tarrant would say if she were to so much as _look_ in the Bandersnatch's direction. She knows he'd be right.

And, in all truth, there _had _been much to be done here, in the Hall of Records. She'd spent two weeks with King Dale and Tarrant and Fenruffle and Nivens and – whenever she could spare the time – the queen, scouring the history of reported thefts in Underland looking for anything that might have been particularly desirable to a pair of banished members of the aristocracy.

At first, things had been promising: missing boots and jackets and knives of the highest quality had been investigated. The craftsmen and women who had created the objects had consented to Call them, but only one had been found: a pair of boots, worn beyond use, at the bottom of a compost heap at a Witzend farm.

Alice wishes she'd been able to accompany the cobbler on that particular quest, just for something to _do_, but Tarrant had suggested Leif be sent before Mirana could volunteer her. Alice had very nearly gotten angry with Tarrant over that, but his pleading gaze had stayed her objection. Luckily, no one had seemed to notice their exchange. And what with two banished former coup-leaders unaccounted for – and what with Alice being one of those to actively work toward their defeat – she knows Tarrant is only going to become _more _protective in the weeks and months (Alice suppresses a groan at the Thought!) to come.

During the first two weeks following the Maigh, reports had been coming in and orders had been sent out to Irondirk and his team with regularity thanks to the team of gryphon messengers the queen keeps on staff. Unfortunately, news – and it had been very _old _news at that! – had dried up rather quickly. Despite Davon Irondirk's charm and cunning, he'd been unable to locate a single individual – be it person, creature, or plant – that had seen either Valereth or Oshtyer even once within the last four years.

The Bays, despite the scents provided by Valereth's and Oshtyer's shoes, had been unable to find _any _lingering trace of them anywhere and had returned to Mamoreal with nothing but exhaustion to show for their efforts.

Which has lead Alice to the inevitable conclusion: the former viscount and lord are no longer in Underland. Just as she'd feared. And while there are, according to Mirana, many times and places they could have traveled to, Alice suspects she knows exactly which one: London, _her _London.

_My very existence here in Underland would have made them think of Up There._

It would have taken just a single wish and a thought of Alice Kingsleigh's home to take them to England. Alice, upon leaving the queen's office on the day of her and Tarrant's return, had sequestered herself in their apartment and had opened the looking glass for the first time since she'd visited her mother to say farewell. Her mother's room, her father's study, Margaret's solarium: those rooms she'd managed to inspect and – eventually – her family members moving freely about them. Alice had even noticed the baby that Margaret had cradled in her arms, a baby which Alice strongly suspects is her niece or nephew... But the other rooms and their mirrors had been closed to her. Perhaps because those rooms had been changed and thus Alice had been unable to successfully build the image of them in her mind and will the portal to open between the two worlds. She had tested this theory on her old room in her mother's house. It had opened easily and this room had also looked precisely the way she'd remembered it.

So, her sister and her mother (although Helen Kingsleigh had looked far, far older than Alice had expected) are safe. Still, Alice had had to forcibly remind herself that she could not travel through the mirror and return safely, not without someone on this side to keep it open for her. However, Alice is convinced that going through the looking glass and asking a few questions – oh, not to her family, of course, who believe her long deceased – is a viable option. If only she had the money, Alice could hire a solicitor or even a less reputable investigator to look for Valereth and Oshtyer! The idea had come to her fully formed and she'd asked the Royal Seamstress to make a few Upland-style dresses for her, just in case the queen had approved the idea.

She hadn't.

_"Let us wait a bit longer and see if any more recent reports of their activities come to light."_

But Alice knows there won't be; there will be no _more recent_ reports. Unless they come from London.

And Valereth and Oshtyer might not have thought to attack a jabberwocky and drink its blood and travel to Upland if Alice had never chosen to stay in Underland: if she had never suggested Chessur as a part-time parent to Krystoval, had never introduced Chessur to the Jabberwocky, had never participated in the Trial of Threes, had never promised Tarrant that she'd return, had never slain the Jabberwocky in the first place, had never allowed herself to be lured away from that horrid engagement party by a white rabbit in a waistcoat, had never...

She sighs.

_You could be fretting over nothing. Perhaps they used the blood to travel to another place altogether..._

Although, she doubts it. As with the knowledge that one might be able to travel through Time with the aid of the blood of a jabberwocky, accounts of the Other Worlds have been kept secret. Mirana had assured her that only the current Masters of Intentional Magic in each realm and their king and queen are permitted to know those things.

"Absolem," Alice had said, guessing the identity of the White Realm's Master of Intentional Magic.

Mirana had nodded. "Yes. And Magenka of Shuchland. There is another in Galandonland although I do not know much more than that."

So Alice had arrived at the conclusion that were Valereth and Oshtyer to travel _anywhere_ via jabberwocky blood, it would be to Upland, to Alice's home, using _her _as a reference to get them there.

And what sort of damage could those two be causing in London, so close to Alice's unguarded loved ones? Dare she hope those unscrupulous bastards had simply opened up a small shop and are even now concentrating on swindling people out of their pence and pennies? Still, even if that relatively harmless thievery were occurring, it would be _her fault_ for it had been _she _who had lead them there, who had made the journey possible, who had given them the very idea and the motivation... however indirectly.

Yes, it is her fault; she had allowed them to live, hadn't she? Should she have killed them as she had Stayne? No mercy: is that the way it must always be when confronting a threat to the White Queen and her reign?

Alice shies away from that thought and the dark path that unfurls with it. No, she will not take that road; she will not consider it. Not yet. First, she must do whatever she can – whatever she must – to fix this mess. Had this happened a few months ago – before she and Tarrant had decided to conceive a child – Alice would have been _out there_ or perhaps already _Up There_, hunting those greedy, cheating, opportunistic wastrels down. A few months ago, it would have been just as much her fault as it is now. But now...

It is her fault but not _her fight_.

"Th'rock ain't movin', ye wee bessom!"

Startled, she looks up and into Thackery's twitching expression. When had he stopped banging around in the kitchen and wandered out here?

"No' movin'!" he repeats, his ears flopping a bit with emphasis.

Frowning, Alice glances down at the sharpening stone in her grasp. "It moves," she replies, demonstrating.

"No, no, no' movin' in th'slightest!" he insists, blinking his left eye rapidly. "If 'twere ye'd be sittin' on _it_ rather than it sittin' on _ye._"

Alice shakes her head, still not understanding.

"Oh, aye," he argues. "No such thin'as a thoughtful rock, jus' thoughts full o' rocks!" Thackery nods and adjusts the basket over his arm. "Ye leave tha' one be, Alice. Ye cannae move a rock tha' doesnae wan'tae be moved!"

"I agree with the hare, Champion Alice."

Alice sighs with resignation as Leif sits down next to her on the stone bench.

"Don't huff and puff at me, Miss Champion," he says smartly through a smirk. "If this is the thanks I get for trying to cheer you up, I'll just let you enjoy that rock you're wearing around your neck a bit longer."

"Sure, let me enjoy the experience. Builds character," she grumbles, watching Thackery stride-twitch-stumble-stride-stomp-march-twitch away from them and toward the vegetable garden.

"Breaks backs," he rebuts. She refuses to fidget under his searching gaze; she resumes honing the edge of the blade.

"You keep that up and you'll have nothing but a cheese knife with a fancy pommel," he tells her.

Alice has to tighten her fingers around the stone to stop herself from flinging it in the general direction of the compost heap.

"Besides, if you don't trust this Outlander to do the job right, what are you sitting around here for?" Leif challenges, misinterpreting the source of her quiet misery. "I've never seen you back down and take a seat when there was action to be done."

"There's a first time for everything," she mutters.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Like listening to the Hatter?"

Alice glances up sharply.

"Ah, I figured that must be it. What did he say to keep you at Mamoreal? I know, I know: I know it's none of my business, but tell me anyway. I'm dying of curiosity," he informs her with a wide grin.

"Then get on with it and die already," she snipes back, her mouth twitching in a tiny smile.

"Ah-ha! I got one! Right there. That twitch was a smile."

"Was not. Go away and bother Thackery. Haven't you been promoted to protecting the vegetables from slugs yet?"

"What makes you think they'd trust me with something so important?"

"A wild guess."

"Hm. All right, I'll take one," he says, flipping her droll comment around on her and turning it into an offensive conversational gambit. "The Hatter told you to stay put or he'd never wear that kilt of his again, right?"

"Ex_cu_se me?"

"Now, calm down! Don't try to hide how much you love it. We all _know_."

"No, if you _knew _how much I love that kilt, I'd have to dispatch you."

"Can't keep secrets in this place. It's no use, Alice."

"I'll bet you I could."

"I'm sure you'd try. So, what do you think of me asking the Hatter to make me one?"

"Make you one what? One sorry excuse for a lion?"

He chuckles. "A kilt, of course!"

Alice shakes her head. "Don't even think about it, Leif. Tails and kilts just... _No_."

"But, _you've _thought about it. Quite obviously," he crows with delight. "You had an answer all ready for that question, didn't you?"

"Maybe I did, but not because I was spending _hours of my life _contemplating it. It's just common sense."

"Maybe you haven't noticed yet, but we're a little short on common sense around here." Leif nods in the direction of the garden where Thackery is noisily trying to beat the potatoes out of the ground with a bucket.

"Can't say that I have. Are you sure?"

"That bucket speaks for itself."

_Indeed_ _it does_, Alice agrees, listening to the poor object's protests: "Put me – _oof!_ – down you mad – _ack!_ – March Hare! _Ow!_ What you want – _ouch!_ – is a spade! A spade! _Gah!_ You've put the bucket before the – _argh!_ – spade!"

"I suppose I ought to do something about that," Alice muses.

"Oh? Are we Champions for the gardening implements now?"

"Implements. Is that a new one for you?"

"How did you guess?"

"Wait, let me guess another one," Alice continues, smiling broadly. "Tarra taught you that word over breakfast today?"

"Lunch, actually. You can't honestly expect me to remember a word that long for more than a couple hours, can you?"

"Actually, I'm continuingly surprised that you manage to remember your own name."

"Can't take credit for that. If not for people shouting it at me at a dozen times a day, I just might."

"Fates, your brain's turned to cheese. Is this what happens to people when they befriend six-year-olds who think they can conquer all of Underland with a wooden sword and a screaming battle cry?"

Leif chuckles. "That would be Envy talking. Be strong, Champion Alice. Fight it."

"I'll do my very—"

Whether Alice had been about to promise to do her very worst or her very best to fight her baser nature is lost in the sudden rumbling that rolls over Mamoreal from the distance. Alice has just enough time to frown at Leif – who looks equally puzzled by the strange not-quite-thunder noise – before the bench beneath them begins to shake. Alice grasps it with two hands and braces her feet on the ground only to discover that it's the ground _itself _that is shaking!

Shaking and shuddering, rolling, rocking, lifting, and thrumming with frightening strength!

The trees groan and shiver, releasing their blossoms in shock.

She looks up at what she can see of the steep mountains ringing the valley and watches as rocks are dislodged and tumble down into the rushing white river that encircles Mamoreal. She hears screams in the distance as people panic in the small village beyond the castle gates. And the castle itself...

Ear-splitting cracks and groans join the grumbling noise of the earth and marble dust rains down on Alice and Leif. She throws herself off the bench and backs away from the wall, dragging Leif with her. Turning, she gapes – horrified – at the way the walls _ripple_ like a massive ocean wave above them.

There's a shout from within, then a scream and the cry of a baby and—

—a moment of heart-stopping panic that envelops her heart, bakes it solid, then fractures it into jagged pieces.

_Tarrant! The queen! The children!_

As one, Alice and Leif dash toward the entrance of the castle. Just as they pass through the archway, suddenly, the earth quiets. The rumbling stops. The world is silent and still again. The Champions race up the dusty stairs and ignore the coughing and wheezing of the carpets. Alice turns down the hall toward the queen's office while Leif rushes off in another direction.

"Are you all right?" Alice gasps, flinging the door open and taking in the sight of the queen, huddled in the corner and grasping her sons to her chest. Leivlan, it sounds like, is protesting the rough handling _very _loudly and Alice reaches out to take him from Mirana's tight grasp. "They need to breathe a bit, Mirana. Please."

The queen blinks her wide eyes. "Alice... what...? What was...? _Thacie! Amallya, Chestor, Tarranya—Alicibeth! __**Where are they?**_"

Alice, still holding Leivlan who is fussing a bit, but no longer wailing uncontrollably, grasps Mirana by her elbow and pulls her to her feet and toward the door—

—where Alice nearly runs into Tarrant.

"_**Alice!**_"

"I'm fine! _You? _Are _you _hurt?" He doesn't look hurt, just startled and scared, but her heart is still pounding with both his fright and hers, and the clashing of their heartbeats is distracting.

"Yes, yes. Fine, fine. Come, Your Majesty, let's locate your little ones!"

And, five frantic minutes later, the queen is sinking to her knees next to her husband who has his great arms full of confused and frightened children. Alice hands Leivlan over to the arms of a waiting nurse and pivots into Tarrant's chest. She closes her eyes and swallows back the squeak of protest when his arms become painfully tight around her.

"What _was _that?" Leif demands, opening his arms for Tarra when the girl flings herself at him.

"I..." Alice says, hesitantly. "I think..."

Despite the fact that her voice is muffled in Tarrant's jacket and she can't move her jaw much for the spools of thread strung up and slung across his chest, it seems as if her voice echoes in the library where the king had been overseeing his children's lessons and the nurses had been minding Amallya and Thacie.

Alice announces in a gruff whisper, "I think it was an earthquake."

"A... what?" Mirana manages, her dark eyes still wide with shock.

"In Upland, we call them earthquakes. They happen sometimes. When I was a child, there was one in Italy that..." Alice swallows and rasps, "... killed thousands of people."

Tarrant leans back and demands: "Th' land _Up There __**kills folk?**_"

"Sometimes," Alice replies.

The panic enflaming her heart renews and Alice reaches up to press her hands to his face before his irises can flash past yellow into orange. "Shush, now. I'm here. I'm not Up There. I'm fine. We're fine."

Tarrant struggles with his breaths, until they deepen and slow. Alice brushes her fingers over his cheeks and smoothes his hair and wonders where he'd left (or dropped) his hat.

"Alice, do Uplanders know the cause of these... earth-quakes?" the king asks worriedly.

"'Twas I!"

Everyone in the room startles and turns their attention toward the doorway where Thackery is slumped on the floor, a picture of abject misery, with a dirty bucket grasped in his paws.

"'Twas I!" he repeats, his voice rising with alarm. "I shouldae use'th'_spade!_"

"No, no, Thackery," Alice replies, finding her voice first. "It wasn't you or the bucket! No one knows why these things happen, but they do. In some places more than others." She turns back to Tarrant. "It's been over a hundred years since England experienced an earthquake. I was perfectly safe growing up there!"

The Hatter closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and nods. When he opens his eyes again, he's completely calm, rational, collected. Alice turns back to Thackery and reaches out a hand to him. "It's all right," she says, leaning down to rub his shoulder.

After a moment, Mirana takes a deep, steadying breath and announces, "We'll need to inspect Mamoreal for damage and make sure no one is requiring assistance."

Alice nods. She tugs on Tarrant's sleeves and leads him toward the door. "Come with us, Thackery. We could use your help."

The survey of Mamoreal reveals a few fallen roofing tiles, some toppled water fountains, a broken window, and several dust-covered, panicky residents.

"Do... you think _all _of Underland felt that... earth-quaking?" Tarrant lisps as Leif leads the Queen's Guard back toward the castle.

"I'm not sure," Alice is forced to admit. "It came like a train roaring down the track. The queen's messengers will be able to tell us for sure... I'd hate to think it was worse elsewhere..." For if it had been, certainly, there must be casualties far more serious than a shattered window and some overturned fountains!

As they pass through the gates, Alice blinks at the lines of white soldiers packed along the castle drive. "What...?"

"Ah, returned at last," Fenruffle announces, stomping over to them. "The queen would like a word. She's entertaining a... guest on the croquet pitch."

"I see." Although, in fact, she _doesn't._ After years dealing with the Head of the Queen's Household, Alice has learned not to expect much in the way of detail or explanation from him. "Thank you," she replies despite the fact that the irritable gryphon has already turned away and is now snapping at a frog footman.

With a worried glance at Tarrant and Leif, Alice steps off of the paved drive and into the orchard. They circle around the castle along the meandering paths toward the croquet pitch, walking fast.

"Champions! Sir Hatter!" the king calls as they emerge from amongst the still-shocked and shivering cherry trees. He motions them closer and Alice takes in the sight of the queen conversing with the Jabberwocky. It regards Mirana seriously, its dawn-colored eyes narrowed in thought.

"What's happened?" Leif asks, keeping a wary eye on the visiting creature.

"Krystoval has come with news. As keepers of the land, the jabberwockies can feel when it is damaged or unwell." The king takes a deep breath and says softly to his Champion, "This earth-quake, it's worse in the south. Much worse."

Leif's eyes widen. "Shuchland?"

The king shakes his head, his expression grave and tense. "It hasn't been confirmed by the messengers yet, but..."

"I'm leaving with the army," Leif announces.

The king places a long-fingered paw on his friend's arm. "As am I."

Next to her, Tarrant relaxes. Alice swallows back a sigh; with both the king _and _his Champion away Alice will _have to_ stay in Mamoreal to protect the queen and her children.

"We're recruiting everyone we can to assist us in the rescue efforts... if they're required," the king continues. "Mallymkun, Bayard and his pups, the Bandersnatch... We will do everything we can to help."

Leif nods.

Alice just hopes the king and his Champion won't encounter any difficulties in returning to their homeland, the land from which they'd been banished rather brutally. But Alice knows Mirana would not have agreed to let them lead this mission of mercy had she felt that their personal safety might be in jeopardy...

"_Champion Alice!_"

"Yes, Krystoval? Is your family all right?" Alice bows away from the king and approaches the Jabberwocky. Tarrant shadows her.

"No," it replies shortly. "But that is an issue for later. At the moment, the land that has been torn asunder must be dealt with. I am taking Grofflie, Thoran, and Wavlert with me into the south. The healing will go faster with their assistance, limited though it will be."

"And Maevyn?" Alice prompts.

"I have asked the White Queen if she would permit Chessur and Maevyn to reside here... for the time being."

"And I have agreed," Mirana hurries to assure Alice.

Alice nods. "We'll look after Maevyn and Chessur."

"Thank you, Champion Alice."

"You may call upon us whenever you have need, Krystoval," Alice reminds the Jabberwocky.

"And... if I might impose a small request?" the queen ventures. At the Jabberwocky's nod, she continues, "In order to bring the injured aid as quickly as possible, I've spelled several large looking glasses, connecting them to the ones here at Mamoreal. They're quite heavy and I'm concerned that they might slow down the army or break during rough journey..."

"I will deliver them to Shuchland," Krystoval offers.

"Thank you. I'll have them brought out and wrapped."

The queen drifts into the castle to see to those preparations. Alice turns back to the Jabberwocky. "Why isn't Maevyn going with you?"

"Maevyn is ill," Krystoval replies, worry creasing its face and turning its expression into a fearsome grimace. "I do not know the cause. Nor has Maevyn been able to describe the symptoms clearly but claims to have been feeling poorly for some time now."

"The queen and I will see if there is anything we can do."

"I appreciate that, Champion Alice, but I ask that you not poison my offspring with your haphazard alchemedic attempts at a remedy."

Appreciating the stern tone of a concerned parent, Alice replies, "Should we have _any_ suggestions for treatment, we'll send word before we act and wait for your approval."

"That will be acceptable."

And, with that settled and nothing else to do but wait, an uneasy silence surrounds them.

"Krystoval," Tarrant says after a moment and the Jabberwocky turns its gaze toward him. "Do you recall any of these... earth-quakings happening before in Underland?"

Alice places a hand on her husband's arm in appreciation. Of course the Jabberwocky would know! It is very nearly as old as Underland itself! And with its memory...!

The Jabberwocky shakes its head. "I cannot speak for the three-and-a-third-years that I spent, time and again, waiting to be returned to Underland, but no, Hatter Hightopp. I have never witnessed an event such as the one that has occurred on this day."

Tarrant frowns, his eyes paling with worry. Alice slips her hand into his. She struggles to find an assurance that's not empty, and, after a moment, whispers to him: "Together."

Yes, despite all that's happened, they're still _together._

Tarrant looks up and offers her a shaky smile. His fingers tighten around her hand. "Aye," he agrees. "Raven."

And, for now, in these uncertain times, that is all they can give each other.

And, despite the fact that they still fear and worry and dread, Alice knows that they do so _together_. And, for now, that will be the source of their strength.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5]


	88. Book 3, An Unlikely Guest, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Six: An Unlikely Guest  
**_

[Scenes 1 and 2 of 3]

Alice is **Beautiful**.

Tarrant watches her as they all muddle through this dire and frightening time. He brushes his fingertips over her knee, unable to resist touching her despite the gravity of the queen's lecture on basic healing arts. He can't stop himself from studying her throughout the sleepless night spent preparing for their Shuchlander patients. His heart aches for her as she rather visibly resigns herself to merely making up the cots that now line the kitchen and throne room and dining hall instead of helping him and Thackery with moving tables. ("Can't move ourselves, you know!" one particularly grouchy table had grumbled. "Oh, aye... can't be bothered tae lose a pound 'r twine, neither!" Thackery had huffed-and-puffed in reply, struggling to scrape his end across the floor.) Tarrant knows she wishes she could do more, be more, at least assist with brewing potions rather than simply fetch and carry potions ingredients! Yet, just those small tasks tire her. (His Alice needs rest! But there is no rest to be had this night!) And despite her obvious exhaustion, worry, frustration, and dread, Tarrant can See how beautiful, how precious, how rare, how utterly _Alice _she is.

And, if what she seems to suspect is true – if Underland had experienced an earth-quaking today – then the very land beneath their feet might have chosen to Take her from him!

He cannot Think about it without feeling his grip on calm, rational sanity start to melt away and dribble from his grasp.

And now is certainly _not _the Time for that!

The kitchen is still quiet and empty of wounded; the mirrors against the walls are still dark and flat. At several long tables, the queen is directing frog footmen, fish butlers and her eldest daughters in the correct preparation of Pain Paste, Wound Winder, and Slumber Saver.

"Alice, could you fetch another jar of worm fat?" Mirana asks, peering into Lakerton's simmering brew.

Tarrant watches as Alice takes a deep breath, holds it, steps closer to the tables and removes the empty jar from the cluttered collection of containers. Tarrant fetches a second jar from the cupboards and passes it to her. She sets the container of worm fat down on the table, turns and steps away. He watches – feeling unaccountably _guilty _– as she reaches for the small, leather pouch that she keeps around her neck, hidden beneath her shirt.

"Alice?" he asks softly, gently running his hand down her arm. He'd rather rub her back or her stomach as those locations would be much closer to the upset area itself. (The technique works on Underlanders, but not – according to Alice – on Uplanders! How frustrating!) He Hates that she often feels so ill!

Alice glances over her shoulder at the queen who is, indeed, very Busy at the moment.

"I'm fine," she replies, placing a Himoha petal on her tongue. "It's just the smell" is her whispered explanation.

"I Worry," he confides.

She gives him a wan smile and he can't help but wish she could have managed a brighter one. "I know."

Tarrant is very grateful, however, that she does _not _ask him what it is that Worries him. He's not entirely sure, himself. Perhaps it's the fact that not only storms at sea, but those from underground tend to kill people Up There, up where Alice had lived, woefully unprotected and at their mercy! (How many times could he have Lost her and not even _realized?_) Or perhaps he's concerned about what this frightening occurrence might mean for Underland: Will Alice and their child be safe Here? But if not Here, then Where? Certainly not in Upland! And how will he protect his Alice and their littlin' from these sorts of foes? He cannot fight them with a broadsword and a pin nor avoid them with a bottle of Pishsalver and a teapot nor distract them with a powder puff and a bottle of perfume nor delay them with—!

"Tarrant," Alice whispers, leaning close to breathe in his ear. He feels her hand on his and realizes he's shaking.

Tarrant swallows and nods once. He is fine. He _must _be fine! Now is _not _the Time to _not be fine!_

"Come and help me with the pallets in the other rooms," Alice invites, leading him out of the kitchen.

He follows her, clutching her hand. Never has he been so frightened. Not when he'd watched her duel – for he'd always Known he wouldn't permit her to be gravely injured, the rules of conduct be damned! Not when he'd engineered his own capture by the Bloody Big Head's Red Knights – for he'd had a Purpose and the sacrifice had all been part of the Plan! But now he has neither Knowledge, Purpose, nor Plan!

"I can't do this, Alice," he hears himself croak. "I can't... Can't Lose... What if... Does Underland... We should leave, but where to go? Where is safe for my Alice and our littlin'?"

More panic pours from him, tripping over his tongue, splattering against and echoing along walls of the throne room, dripping down onto his hat and dribbling into his ears. He's not sure what all he says or how long he speaks-squeaks-screams!

And then there's Silence.

The Silence that comes from an Alice Touch. Her arms wind around his shoulders and her mouth presses against his and her tongue distracts his from the words he can only say and not Think. He pulls her roughly against him and kisses her back with the same madness that had taken control of his speech. And she replies. Yes, of course she does. His Alice has never backed down from his madness. Had never shied away from him. Not even in the presence of the Blackness.

The passion of this kiss affects him strangely, for there is desperation and fear and strength and persistence... There is heat and urgency and yet...

Tarrant squeezes his eyes shut and delves further into her mouth.

And yet he does not Need her. He does not Want her. He feels no urge to be Inside her. And yet... he _does._ No, no, he wants _her _to be within _him._ He wants to open up his body and tuck her inside, safe, kept. Like a pocket watch in a pocket – although not _his _pocket watch or _his _pocket-watch pocket, of course! Unreliable things, the both of them! In fact, he's not sure if the pocket watch had broken the pocket or the other way 'round!

Understanding now what he _Feels_, Tarrant _consumes _her. And she meets that frantic hunger with her own. She Feels it, too, he knows: he can feel the cold, salty smears of her tears against his cheeks and jaw; he doesn't wince when her sharp teeth dig into his tongue and lips; he doesn't mind that her hips do not move against his. This is not Loving. This is Needing. This is Fearing!

It's the taste of blood that finally reaches Tarrant through the storm raging inside him.

He pulls away, the rich salty tang of Alice on his tongue, his lips. Panting – divided by the feeling of his soul being immolated by shame and his body lusting for _more _of her blood, _their _blood, proof of _her _life, _their _life! – Tarrant cradles her cheeks in his hands, wipes her tears with his thumbs and stares at her split lip.

"I bit you," he murmurs, his voice low and gruff, alien to his own ears.

"I bit you back," she replies, lifting her hand to his mouth and Tarrant is surprised to see smears of dark blue on her fingertips when she pulls them away.

He feels his lips curve into a tentative smile. "Alice? What would you think if I told you I wasn't sorry?" His voice wavers, wobbles, warbles in the white room.

"Hm," she breathes on a smile, then leans up and delicately licks the blood from his lower lip. He reciprocates – cleans her – and then kisses her. Softly, slowly, for _this _kiss is for Healing.

With a final brush-taste-caress to his warm, now-thrumming mouth, Alice leans back. "Soon, wounded are going to be coming through the mirrors."

His arms tighten at the Reminder. He doesn't want to Think about it again.

Alice continues, "And I'll be helping them. Maybe helping to carry them. I need you to trust me to know my own limits."

Tarrant feels the edges of his mind fracture at the thought of his Alice bearing the weight of a fully-grown, muscled lion, her knees buckling, her body straining, and their littlin'...!

"That's what Worries me, Alice." His hands grasp her. His voice trembles. "Your limits are frighteningly muchy."

She smiles. "I can do this. A little strenuous exercise isn't going to hurt... us."

_Us._ He shivers.

"Please, call for me if you need assistance." Hearing his own voice, Tarrant knows he can't pretend he's not begging.

"I will call for you _whenever_ I need you."

He wraps her up in his arms again and burrows against her neck. And she Welcomes him. What would he do if, someday, she were no longer Here to Welcome him? The Thought Destroys him.

But before he can crumble at her feet, a soft sound in the hall just beyond whispers to them.

"Sounds like Algernon," Alice muses softly, turning her face and kissing his ear... which makes Tarrant is _very glad_ he'd tied his hair back today.

He straightens and steps back. "Don't ever leave me, Alice," he says quite Seriously.

"I chose us," she reminds him. "And I still do."

And in the next instant, the fish butler is pushing open the door. "The mirrors have opened," he announces flatly and then slither-swishes back the way he'd come. And there's nothing for it but to follow him.

And when they return to the kitchen, Tarrant flinches away from the noise. Normally, he doesn't mind a noisy kitchen, for it's usually filled with Children Noise and Friend Noise and Teatime Noise. But this...!

Tarrant absorbs the sight of the blood, oddly bent limbs, flaps of barely-connected skin. He absorbs the sounds of panic, of pain, of shock. He absorbs the scent of dust and sweat and sewage. He absorbs as much as he can take and then he shuts his Mind to it and gets to work.

"Alice, more bandages!" he hears at one point.

"Where's the Wound Winder?"

"_My son! Have you seen my son?_"

"Hot water's nearly gone!"

"Someone help me with this one!"

"_Did you get my wife? She's still inside the house!_"

"I need a brace! Alice, hold him down!"

"_Where's my mumma?_"

"_What happened? Why did the land break?_"

"Tarrant! Your assistance, please!"

He gently presses the jar of Pain Paste into the paw of the young she-lion for the scrapes and bruises covering her broken arm and bloody leg. "Apply this and I'll be back in a moment," he says then bounds over to Alice where she's doing her best to hold down a very furious-looking lioness.

"Princess Avenana, _please!_ Calm down!" Alice orders her.

"My husband!" she roars. "Where is _he?_"

"Please," Alice says, meeting Tarrant's gaze and nodding toward the bottle of Slumber Saver that's just beyond her reach. He fetches it and dribbles two drops onto the lioness' forehead.

"No, _no!_ Do not make me sleep! Not _now!_ Not... not... _no..._"

"Thank you, Tarrant," the queen says, her hands moving over the now-unconscious lioness' hip. "Do you have her, Alice?"

"Not quite." Again meeting Tarrant's eyes, she asks, "Take her left side?"

He does and then the queen braces herself, wraps her hands around the lioness's thigh and _pulls._ There's a horrendous _pop!_ as the joint slides back into the hip socket. Even worse is the lack of reaction from the patient.

Tarrant fears he'll have nightmares about that sound-and-then-silence.

The queen calls Pondish over and begins explaining how to apply a brace to the princess' hip to relieve the pressure on the strained muscles. Alice arranges the lioness on the table then moves toward Tarrant. "Do you need help with that one?"

He turns back to the young lioness with the broken arm. "Aye," he says and the nightmare continues. He loses count of the number of broken limbs he sets, the cracks ribs he wraps, the crushed tails and paws he has to refer to the queen herself for Advanced Healing. He suspects his hands will forever smell of the White Queen's special Pain Paste.

White Knights escort injured creature after wailing child after hobbling, coughing, sobbing elder through the mirrors. Those treated are taken to rest in the throne room or dining room. Still, the Noise is deafening!

_"My wife! Avenana! __**Where is she?**__"_

A knot unwinds in Tarrant's gut as the frantic he-lion rushes to his wife's side. Algernon, who had been the one to point the creature in the correct direction looks rather miffed and resigned at not being given so much as a thank-you. But Tarrant can't say his own reaction would have been any better.

_D'nae think abou'yer Alice like tha', lad. Injured... pale... unmoving..._

Tarrant gathers up his things and moves on to the next patient. And just as Tarrant looks up from sealing a gash in a weary noble's head, the mirror opens _again._ The looking glass on the far left ripples, reflecting back light and the misery of the room at odd angles, which – in and of itself – is not worthy of more than a moment's attention, but the one who _steps through it__** is!**_

A blood-soaked, blanket-wrapped form slung over his shoulder, Leif bellows, "Champion Alice!"

Despite the fact that Tarrant's wife and not Tarrant himself had been Summoned, he tucks in the edge of the bandage he'd nearly finished wrapping around the man's head and hurries to intercept the exchange between the two Champions.

"... need a private room for this one," he hears Leif say very quietly.

"I know of one," Tarrant offers before Alice can do more than open her mouth to catapult the questions he can See swirling in her eyes. With a nod, Leif follows Tarrant out of the kitchen and down the hall... to the room on the first floor he and Alice had used to treat her Hafflaffen poisoning, once upon a time.

Tarrant moves to the other side of the bed and strips the silk bed clothes from the mattress, leaving only the linen sheets. Leif lays the body down on the bed and glances at Alice as she reaches for the blanket covering the figure's face.

"You're not going to _believe _this," he informs her with a warning look.

Frowning, Alice pulls back the edge of coarse fabric and reveals their newest patient.

Tarrant gapes at the figure – unconscious and badly wounded, bleeding all over the White Queen's guest bed – and, twitching once, seeks out Alice.

Alice who is staring, pale-faced and bey-uriously, at none other than _former _Lord Oshtyer of Galandonland.

* * *

"Madame Mallymkun! Try this doorway," Leif hears his king direct the dormouse. When he'd learned that she'd be joining their rescue mission, Leif hadn't been too sure of how someone that _small _could be of much help. Now he sees the value of having a small size. He glimpses a swish of white as her tail slips through the crack in the fractured door and investigates the gloom beyond, looking for survivors.

"Nuthin'!" she cries after a few moments.

"One more down, about a hundred left to go," Leif grumbles, surveying the rubble-strewn halls of Palace Avenfaire. Ahead, further down the corridor, Bayne is energetically sniffing, working his way toward them.

"Something... in this one..." the fully-grown dog announces between snuffles. Despite the blocks of sandstone and toppled lanterns and planters, Leif is by his side in a moment.

"Odd," Bayne continues, obviously puzzled. "The scent is here, but no trail. Odd..."

Leif regards the crushed remains of the door and measures the gap.

"You won't fit," the bloodhound tells him factually.

Leif sends him a brief glare. "Your father will chew my tail if I let you go in there. He distinctly said—"

The dog snorts. "Yeah, I heard him, too. But I'm my own dog now. What's he going to do? Carry me back home by the scruff of the neck? You're too big and this needs to be checked out. I smell blood."

And, without another word, Bayne slips into the room. Irritated, Leif stomps – rather ineffectually considering the jagged debris blocking his path – toward the _rear _doors to the throne room. He has to shift a pile of shattered rock that he thinks had once been a statue of Avengaff the Great Gifter (quite the generous king, or so legend claims) before he manages to haul the door open wide enough to admit him. And, when he enters, what he sees...

Leif stares at the utter _destruction _of the room. Had this been the origin of the earth-quaking? The storm that had exploded out of the land itself? It seems to be, for there _is _no room! There is only a wide, yawning hole surrounded by walls.

Thankful for the high windows and the coming dawn, Leif examines what he can make out in the gloom. "Bayne, watch out for that... hole."

"Do I look blind to you? Relax."

Leif sighs. _Everybody wants to be a hero..._

"We've got a live one here... Oh...! Dalmatians be damned. I _knew _I recognized this scent."

Leif climbs carefully over the rubble near the wall, minding his footing, until he arrives where the bloodhound is glaring at a grubby, sprawled figure of a man. Leif takes one look and growls, "Oshtyer..."

"Should we just... leave him here, you think?" Bayne asks.

Leif closes his eyes, rubs his face – as if that would dislodge the grit in his eyes or initiate feeling in his long-since-numb cheeks and jaw – and replies, "Depends on if he's still alive." Nose wrinkling in disgust, he leans down and rolls the bastard over.

"_Hnguuuh..._" The weak groan escapes and it _is _a groan, despite how very much Leif would like it to merely be a dead man's belch.

_Well, perhaps he'll know where Valereth is,_ Leif thinks.

"Not dead," Bayne observes flatly.

"Go bring a blanket or something, would you?" Leif asks absently, studying the man's odd attire.

"No kidding," Bayne replies wryly. "I wouldn't want to touch _that _more than necessary, either."

Before Leif can decide if he cares to respond or not, the bloodhound has squirmed back out through the cracked and shifted doorway. Leif takes a moment to investigate the area. He steps a bit closer to the edge of the hole and peers down... and down... and down a bit more... but only the eternal blackness of a true abyss meets his gaze. Shivering, he turns away and sifts through the shattered and scattered tiles. He's not sure what he's looking for, perhaps something to explain _how_ this banished waste of life had managed to not only _return _to Shuchland but _enter the __**Royal Reception Hall!**_

The light gradually strengthens and fades from rosy mauve to golden as the sun rises. Leif glares from Oshtyer to the utterly _demolished _room and then looks up. Although Leif doesn't have much of a reason for looking up, except perhaps to gauge the time, he does, nonetheless...

He's frowning at an odd dark splatter on the high ceiling when Bayne returns with a folded blanket in his mouth.

"Gah. Wool," he gags after dropping the bundle at Leif's feet.

"Does that look like blood to you?" Leif asks, squinting up at the ceiling.

The dog looks from the ceiling to the man still lying prostate on the up-churned floor. "One can hope, I guess. But if it is... wouldn't that mean that...?"

"He fell through the hole from... somewhere."

"Hm. I guess it's too much to hope the earth had kicked him up there?" Bayne wonders.

"Probably." Unable to put it off any longer, Leif unrolls the blanket, wraps one side of it around Oshtyer and rolls the man up in it.

"What are you going to do with him?"

"Take him back to Mamoreal. I'll let Alice and the Hatter have him. Never did get them a wedding gift..."

Bayne barks a shout of laughter. "I almost wish I could be there to see that."

Grinning with less cheer and more... malice, Leif leans down and hauls Oshtyer's body over his shoulder. Grunting, he begins to pick his way back to the rear door.

"Hey, what's this?"

Leif pauses when he's sure of his footing and looks back. He frowns at the odd, black... _thing _Bayne's holding in his mouth. "I don't know, but I don't like the look of it. Just set it down there and I'll come back for it."

The dog does as he's told. "Yeah. Smells weird, too. Some kind of metal and... something else. Pepper-y and smoke-y." Bayne gives it a disdainful sniff before turning and trotting out of the room again, this time in search of more survivors within the ruptured palace walls.

Leif carries Oshtyer over to the door and lays him down on a patch of still-remaining floor before returning for the odd device Bayne had sniffed out. He looks at the thing, wondering over the wooden appendage and attached bulb of black metal and then the slender, hollow tube set at a right angle. Shrugging, Leif puts it in his pack of supplies – with the bandages, water, and pots of ointments provided by the queen – then gets on with it: he navigates himself around the hole for the last time, picks up Oshtyer's still-limp body, and stomps – as effectively as one _can _stomp, that is – in the direction of the nearest mirror.

Just before he steps through the cool, calm surface, his mouth twists into a smirk:

_A wedding present for Alice and the Hatter, indeed!_

And he fully intends to hang around for the, er, "opening" of it.

Leif pushes through the glass, steps into the chaos of the kitchen-turned-infirmary, and roars, "_Champion Alice!_"

Somehow, he's not surprised when her husband answers the call, too.

And, somehow, Leif is equally unsurprised to watch the man effortlessly delay the _numerous _questions that are reflected in the eyes of the Queen's Champion.

Again, somehow, Leif is not surprised in the slightest by their reactions to seeing _this _face again:

Alice pales, glares, and grits her teeth. In that order.

The Hatter looks up at her, takes the afternoon ship to the Isle o' Madness, and snarls a welcome upon his arrival there.

It would be funny if it weren't so... not.

"Hatter!" Leif announces.

The man twitches but his hands fist. And then Alice is there, her hand on his arm and her voice, strong and sure and sane, fills the silence:

"Where did you find him?"

Leif rolls his eyes. "In the bloody throne room of the palace, if you can believe it." He describes the bottomless hole, the blood on the ceiling, and then: "Bayne found this nearby. No idea what it is or if it's even Oshtyer's, but since his clothes are just as odd..." Leif pulls out the black object and startles when Alice _shoves _her husband away from it.

"Don't...!" Alice clamps her mouth shut, takes a deep breath and says, "Don't move, Leif."

He frowns, watching as she approaches him from the side and gently lays her hand over the alien thing. She lifts it from his grasp and, pointing the open end of the hollow tube away from herself and everyone else in the room, she fiddles with a switch attached to the metal bulb and it releases with a sharp _click!_ Leif glances at the Hatter, who looks equally perplexed by Alice's odd behavior.

"What is that?" he finally wonders aloud.

Alice ignores him and, fiddling a bit more with the thing in a manner which _clearly _demonstrates her familiarity with it, opens the bulb and inspects it.

"Alice?" the Hatter asks, his eyes narrowed with what Leif recognizes as suspicion and mad genius. "What is... Why do you... That's dangerous, isn't it? A weapon? From... Up There?"

She sighs and upends the thing, dumping five small, shiny oblong-shaped... well, _things _into her palm before pocketing them in her vest and snapping the metal bulb back into place. "Yes," she tells them. "It's a weapon. From London." She nods to the bed. "So are those clothes, if I'm not mistaken."

And before either Leif or the Hatter can think to stop her, she steps up to the head of the bed and opens Oshtyer's jacket and reads a small label sown onto the satin lining beneath an inner pocket. "I know this tailor. Quality. Expensive. My fam... my family uses them. Still, I think."

"So..." Leif drawls. "Oshtyer was in London?"

"Yes."

He frowns. "Which means the hole in the throne room is..."

"Aye," the Hatter says, his eyes a murky yellowish orange. "'Tis like th' rabbit hole. It connects Underland teh Up There. O'ly, they made it from _Up There_ teh _Here_... an' no'th' other way'round."

The Shuchish curse makes its way past Leif's lips before he can think to stop it.

Alice looks up and gives him a wry grin. "Yes," she agrees. She moves to tuck the black object in the waist of her trousers against her back.

"_Stop!_" the Hatter fairly shouts. "What're ye _doin'?_ Ye said tha's _dangerous!_"

"Not anymore. I released the hammer and took out the bullets. It's just an empty revolver now. Worthless unless you want to beat someone with it."

The Hatter twitches. "How d'ye know so much about... that?"

Alice sighs. "Can I answer that later? Oshtyer's bleeding all over the place."

"Let him bleed," the Hatter growls.

"And let him die? He might be able to tell us where Valereth is. Or how they managed to dig a hole from Upland clean through to Underland."

The Hatter doesn't like it, that much is certain, but he subsides. His eyes still too yellow for Leif's peace of mind, the man leans over and starts undressing the grimy, unconscious man on the bed.

"I'll get some bandages and cleansing solution," Alice offers.

"No amount o' cleansing solution will help _this _slithy bastard," the Hatter replies irritably.

Leif, quite entertained by the Royal Hatter's agitation yet still unsettled by the implications of that... hole in Palace Avenfaire, accompanies Alice out of the room.

"Champion Alice..." he begins.

"No," she replies and in a tone he recognizes. "I'll inform the queen when it's convenient."

Leif acknowledges her unspoken request for secrecy with a nod and asks another question entirely. "Do you really think it's safe to leave them alone in there?"

Alice blinks, her brows arching with surprise. "Tarrant knows I need... _our guest_ to be able to talk. He'll restrain himself."

Leif coughs out a laugh. "That... wasn't quite what I meant." Actually, he'd been wondering if Oshtyer might somehow be a threat to the Hatter, not the other way around!

"I know," Alice replies, her eyes sparkling. "How many times have I told you that you underestimate my husband?"

"I've lost count," he answers, holding the kitchen door open for her and then, without a backward glance, steps up to and through the looking glass... and back into the hell that his homeland has become.

* * *

Notes:

1. The handgun found near Oshtyer is a revolver from the mid-1860s made by William Tranter of Birmingham, England. This particular gun holds a maximum of five bullets. And just where would Alice have learned how to handle one of those? That will be touched upon in future chapters.

* * *

[End of Chapter 6: Scenes 1 & 2 of 3]


	89. Book 3, An Unlikely Guest, 2 of 2

**Warning:**** This entry is rated M for sensuality. **

******

* * *

**

_**Chapter Six: An Unlikely Guest  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Once again, Alice discovers that she is the bearer of Very Bad news.

"Oshtyer?" the queen repeats. Her tone is disbelieving, but Alice can see the wrought-iron strength in her friend's dark eyes. "Oshtyer is _here?_"

"Yes, and under guard," Alice hurries to confirm and assure.

"Double it," the queen orders in That Tone. The one she'd acquired upon conceiving her twin daughters. Alice aspires to be just as intimidating when it comes to Tarrant's safety and the well-being of their child.

"Done," Alice agrees.

"And Valereth?" the White Queen demands.

Alice shakes her head. "No news. As soon as Oshtyer awakens, I'll be asking him."

The queen nods, her face set in tense, angry lines. And then, with a frustrated huff, she turns away. "I wish now I _had _permitted the architects to put in a dungeon."

Alice refrains from agreeing. "There's more."

The queen looks over her shoulder at her. "Of course there is, or you would have started in on the reassurances by now. Well, what is it?"

Alice feels for the queen, she really does. They'd finally managed to tend to the wounded from Shuchland, had actually begun sending many of them back through the looking glass with supplies and tents and other necessities, had _finally _managed a brief span of sleep themselves, and _this _is what the queen must deal with over the first cup of tea she's enjoyed since the earthquake.

Swallowing a sigh, Alice tells her about Oshtyer's clothing and weapon and injuries; and she tells her about the bottomless hole in Shuchland and the reported blood on the throne room ceiling. Mirana – no, the _White Queen!_ – listens to Alice's report.

"Well," she says when Alice has exhausted her reserves of Terrible Tidings. "It seems as if you may yet be using those dresses you requested."

Alice catches the gasp before it can escape. Part of her is _elated _to have a more vital role to play in this investigation – _finally!_ – and part of her dreads telling Tarrant of the contribution the queen has asked her to give...

"Yes, Your Majesty. If Oshtyer doesn't wake up by tomorrow afternoon, I shall go Upland and investigate. Both the origin of the hole and Valereth's whereabouts."

Mirana nods. "And I will speak to the leaders of the other realms and the Masters of Intentional Magic about closing the hole as quickly as possible. And the other entrances as well. Just to be safe."

Alice agrees, "Yes, what if Valereth managed to convince people that Underland is real? We can't have Uplanders falling down here and..." _Colonizing our world_, Alice does not say.

"What does the Oraculum have to show about all of this?" she continues.

The queen looks away and Alice feels her own fingers dig into the padded armrests. The chair squirms a bit and she abruptly releases it with an apologetic pat.

"The Oraculum," Mirana finally says, "refuses to unroll."

"I'm sorry? It... _refuses?_"

"Yes. The last recorded day was the day before the earth-quake."

"_Why?_"

Mirana sighs. "Absolem suspects it is because the fate of Underland is no longer driven by the Powers that created the Oraculum."

"The Fates, you mean?"

"Yes."

"So, what is affecting..." Alice begins, then stops as the answer comes to her. "It's Upland, isn't it? The fate of Underland depends on what happens... Up There."

"That very well may be. Alice..."

She swallows as Alice at last feels the weight of this task settle upon her heart.

"I am not _only _asking you to investigate both the cause of the earth-quake and Valereth's current activities." And, in that moment, Alice sees true sorrow in Mirana's face, the face of her dear friend. "Do you know what it is I'm asking of you?"

"I believe I do, yes."

"I am sorry I must ask you to do this, Alice. I realize the thought of going back is an unsettling one... and..." She frowns briefly. "And one that Tarrant will likely _not _be pleased with. But, I'm afraid I can't send Nivens to London. That was one of the problems the last time, you know. You were in London and Nivens, being a rabbit..."

"A talking rabbit in a waistcoat, yes," Alice agrees. "He would not have gotten on well in the city at all." And in order to get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible, Underland will need a Champion who can navigate an Upland city. But, no, not just _any _Upland city: London.

"Indeed. Hence, we had to learn your schedule, prepare the rabbit hole, and wait for you in the countryside."

"It all worked out well," Alice reminds her. "And it will again."

The queen smiles sadly and with the Gravity of Sovereignty, formally issues the command, "Alice Kingsleigh, you are the only one who can accomplish _this _task."

_Yes_, she agrees, her heart pounding. It must be Alice Kingsleigh, _not _Lady Alice Hightopp or Alice Lassling or Champion Alice who must face this challenge, complete this task...

"And I shall," she promises.

As Alice sets out to address the queen's requests – stopping by the tailor's workroom to ask that the dresses be ready as soon as possible, then collecting four more soldiers for standing guard both outside and within Oshtyer's room – she wonders how she is going to get Tarrant to agree to this, to letting her go. And she knows that if she can manage it, it will be an Underlandian miracle of the most miraculous sort.

Despite the fact that having not two but _four _guards in the hall outside Oshtyer's room makes the area quite crowded indeed, the room itself is even more so. The Royal Midwife and Head Nurse, a Dodo bird and Uilleam's wife, is looking over the bandaged man on the bed. Nearby, Tarrant stands at attention, ready and waiting for Oshtyer to so much as dare a twitch of hostility in his sleep.

"Must have been this bump on the head," Othenia muses, inspecting the wound and rewrapping it. "Bumps on the head can do that sometimes."

"Will he wake up?" Alice asks.

"That's what I was just explaining, dear," the Dodo replies. "He may not. Or he may. It's up to the bump."

She nods. "And the knife wound across his chest?"

"Nearly healed," Othenia confirms. "Our queen certainly has a knack for medicinal remedies, doesn't she?"

"Quite."

Alice sees the Dodo out and, reluctantly, turns back to Tarrant. She can feel it through the heart line, simmering beneath her Heart Mark: his apprehension.

"Tell me what the queen said," he says softly.

Alice nods and, holds out her hand to him. For _this _conversation, she does not want two rooks, a pawn, and a knight as witnesses. The hat workshop is closer than their apartment but Alice chooses the further of the two. It gives her more time to think, to gather her rationale, to compose her apologies. It also gives her more time to Dread.

_This is __**not **__going to end well..._

Tarrant opens the door for her and follows her across the threshold. She takes a moment to look around their apartment and wonder – rather pessimistically – if it will look different, _be different_, after this conversation is through. Or rather, after her stubbornness and Tarrant's madness have finished with it...

She turns and is a little startled to find him very deliberately standing between her and the door with his arms crossed and his eyes – un-ignore-ably yellow! – narrowed. Alice closes her own eyes briefly, draws a deep breath, lets it out, and thinks: _He Knows._

But of course he does!

Alice berates herself for committing the very sin she'd warned Leif about: underestimating Tarrant Hightopp.

He very obviously already Knows what the queen had wanted to talk to Alice about, but...

... but he says nothing.

Realizing that this might be her _only _chance to persuade him of the necessity of her task, Alice orders her arguments and evidence.

"Oshtyer came from London, through the hole in Shuchland," she begins.

Tarrant stares at her then nods. Once.

"Somehow, Uplanders have managed to make a hole connecting the worlds."

Again, another nod.

"We need to know how they managed it. And if they're going to try again. And what they plan to do with it," she continues softly, oddly fearful of upsetting the tension between them.

He stares. Waits.

"The queen needs someone who knows the ways of the people... Up There."

His right eye twitches.

And, as they both know where this is going, Alice sees no reason to delay the inevitable: "I've been asked to go."

"**NO.**"

"The queen has issued me a command," she tries to reason.

"**Then I will tell her why you cannot go.**"

The deep tone and frighteningly perfectly enunciated words are the harbinger of the Blackness – as Tarrant had called it – that has not made an appearance since that afternoon in the hat workshop after Leif's stupidly heroic rush to "rescue" Alice from a lifetime bound to Mamoreal's Mad Hatter. Despite the reminder of That Time, Alice does not relent. "It won't make a difference. There are no other Uplanders who can do this!"

"**You are NOT GOING.**"

"You can't stop me!"

Tarrant's eyes burn through yellow and approach orange. She watches his skin darken like a bandit's mask around his eyes. "**Alice**," he says, his inflection utterly commanding. "**You are first the Queen's Champion and second my wife. I have watched you – time and time again – put your duty before **_**us**_**. BUT NOT THIS TIME.**"

"I don't have a choice!"

"_**THERE IS NO CHOICE!**_" Tarrant's hands, fisted, fall to his sides and his eyes flash crimson. For a moment, Alice wonders if the Blackness has truly regained control of his mind after all this time. She _easily_ remembers what he'd done, what she'd allowed him to do, and she feels an instant of True Fear now. For now, with the baby, can she really permit him to do whatever the Blackness urges him to?

Swallowing, Alice focuses on her heart line, shoves her fear aside and _concentrates _on calming him. "Tarrant," she tries, watching his tight fists loosen just a bit and his eyes fade back into orange. "You would have me choose to stay rather than to do what is right?"

And his tentative control snaps:

"_Th'__**choice**__ isnae __**yers**__ teh make!_" he screams and, despite his anger, Alice has never been so relieved to hear his Outlandish brogue._ "Tha's__** my littlin'**__ yer carryin' an' ye'll no'be goin' ANYWHERE where th' storms an' land an' these__** thin's**__ called __**revolvings**__ HURT PEOPLE!_"

Her relief evaporates, allowing incredulity to take its place.

She gapes at him. "You're asking me _to go against a __**direct order from the QUEEN?**_"

"_**NAE! I'M TELLIN' YE THA' YE'VE GOT TEH STAR'THINKIN' O'SOMMUN OTHER THA'YERSELF!**_"

"_**I AM!**_" she shouts back. "_I'm thinking of Underland and you and our child and HOW CAN I CONTINUE TO DO NOTHING WHEN THIS IS __**MY RESPONSIBILITY?**_"

"AN' WHA' O'YER RESPONSIBILITIES TEH _**US?**_ D'THEY COUNT FER NAUGHT?"

"UNDERLAND _NEEDS_ ME!"

He rallies: "UNDERLAND D'SNAE REVOLVE 'ROUND _**YOU**_, ALICE!"

Panting, Alice lets his shout be absorbed by the silence. Cleaning the slate, as it were. She has a point to make:

"_**Oh, yes it does!**_" she argues, taking a step toward him. "_Or have you forgotten all the blasted ballads in my __**honor?**__ Queen's Champion, Slayer of the Jabberwocky! Come from the mysterious world __**Up There!**__ Returned to Upland after the battle with the blood of the Jabberwocky!_" She shakes her head at him in bewildered fury. "_Where do you __**think **__Valereth and Oshtyer got the __**idea **__to go to London from? Where __**could **__they have gotten the idea from __**if it hadn't been FROM ME?**_"

There's a brief flicker – a moment of Logic – in his obstinate expression and then he presses, "So. Ye're goin' teh say _'Brangergain i'tall'_ an' do this _all _on yer own? Like ye _always_ do?"

"_I do __**not—!**_"

"_Yes, ye do!"_ He paces toward her, an accusation following each step: "Champion Alice and her Plan to save the White Realm from Jaspien, Valereth, and Oshtyer! Champion Alice and her Plan to save _me_ from killing that blasted lion! Champion Alice and her Plan to keep _our littlin'_ a secret because she d'snae need help from ANYONE!"

Alice leans back and _looks _at him. "I..." She closes her mouth and studies his face, the pain behind the fury in his eyes, and realizes he's right.

Well, of course, he is! This is Tarrant Hightopp. Her husband, Holder of her Heart. The man who has taught himself how to See into her Soul.

He's but a snarling breath away from her and yet he doesn't snap or shout. He whispers, "Mayhap I'm tae mad teh be remem'brin' a-righ'ly, but I couldae _sworn __**my Alice**_ named me _her _Champion, once upon a ride on th'Bandersnatch." His gaze _burns _into hers. "Or mayhap _ye've _f'gotten?"

Speechless, Alice turns and, shakily, sinks down into the closest chair. Yes, she remembers that late night journey through Tulgey Wood. Yes, she remembers naming him _her _Champion. How could she forget _any_ detail from that night and the morning that had followed? How could she let herself forget – no, not _forget_ but _**ignore!**_ – the fact that Tarrant Hightopp had been saving _her _long before she'd ever been called upon to lift a sword.

How ironic that, years ago, he'd been one of those very people to insist upon that. How ironic that he'd had such immovable _faith_ in her and her path to becoming the White Queen's Champion. How ironic that she'd once resisted what she has embraced so blindly now. What had happened? How had she pushed him into his workshop so thoroughly? Had she done it to keep him safe or to...?

But, no, _**no!**_ She would never go to such lengths to assert control over her un-controllable life... would she? She wouldn't emasculate Tarrant to bolster her own strength... would she?

_What have I done?_

The thought Consumes all others, leaving her mind numb, blank, empty.

After a moment, Tarrant moves from his place between her and the door and kneels down in front of her. She watches as he collects her hands. "I shouldn't have shouted, Alice," he lisps. "And I shouldn't have said those things."

"Why-ever not. They're true. They're all true."

"No, not entirely." His fingers gently grasp her chin and lift her face to his. "Accusations without context. I ken yer reasons, Alice. Respect 'em. I _do._.. But _please_..." His Outlandish disappears and she hears Fear take control of his voice. "Try to understand. Can you imagine what it's like to watch the one you love take up a sword and fight? Over and over again? You tell yourself you'll always be there... to step in, if needed... And you can't be anything but proud of that Champion, of her strength... And then somehow – unbelievably, miraculously! – she chooses to carry your child. _Your child,_ Alice. And you realize there are things you cannot fight, don't know _how _to fight, and any one of them might destroy _everything _that you hold dear. _Both of them in a single __**instant!**_ Can you imagine how _difficult _it is for a man to _stand aside_ and _watch _his wife and their unborn child face such dangers?"

Even before he has finished speaking, Alice's face is wet with hot tears. No, she hadn't thought about it like that at all. No, of course she hadn't. She hadn't considered the Trust he had given her – is giving her! She hadn't considered how unbelievably _hard _it must be to surrender control as he had done. (For he had Surrendered it, quite knowingly! Unlike the other times Alice had made the choice _for _him!) And here she is, throwing the very worst of his fears and nightmares in his face: his wife and their unborn child, galumphing off into the Unknown. No, she hadn't really thought past his worrying nature and his aggravatingly protective tendencies, not to the _source _of it all...

"I'm—so—sorry," she sobs.

"Shhh... shhh..." he croons, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her toward him.

Alice presses her dripping nose into his jacket. "I'm—so—_selfish!—slurvish!—__**s-sorry!**_"

"Hush, my Alice, _please!_"

His hands move over her back, rubbing and soothing. Alice merely sobs harder, unable to stop the momentum of the utter disappointment she feels in herself.

"I can't—can't—"

"Shhh... ye d'nae hav'teh..."

She shakes her head. "No, no." He doesn't understand! "I have to—keep—keep this promise!" She forces herself to breathe deeply around the hiccups and tears. "I promised—the queen, Tarrant. _I promised!_"

He shakes his head and says softly, sadly, but firmly, "I cannae le'ye do it, Alice."

She leans away from him and presses the offered handkerchief to her nose. "Are you... going to fight me over this?" she whispers, shocked and not a little betrayed.

"I am," he replies.

She gawks at his assertion, at the resolution in his face. _He means it!_

And then he sighs. "I would. I want to." He glares at her. "But you'd find a way to go anyway, I'm sure." His hands tighten on her arms. "I'm _sure!_" he shouts despite the fact that he's less than an arm-length away. "Naught fer usal teh try teh keep ye 'ere, ye stubborn lass! But _ye're no'goin' teh leave __**me**__ here __**again!**_"

And with that, he stands and marches into the bedroom. Flunderwhapped, she sits in the chair and watches his shadow moving through the open doorway.

"I d'nae like this! In fa'I _hate _it! But ye're no'_goin' Up There __**wi'out ME!**_"

Alice gasps as he steps back into the living room, clutching his broadsword in his hands. "No," she says, standing and moving toward him.

His eyes flash again, back to red in less than an instant. "_D'nae tell me tha'I CANNAE, ALICE, FER __**I WILL BE GOIN' WI'YE AN' THERE'S NUTHIN' YE CAN DO TEH STOP ME!**_"

She closes the distance between them and presses her hands against his face. "You're not going to London –"

And she hurries to press one hand over his mouth as the madness and pure Fury roll through him.

" – not with that broadsword!" she tells him. "You're right! I need you! I need _you!_ I need you to come with me, to look out for me, to protect me. Protect _us._ I _can't_ do this by myself and I'm not a Champion Up There. Up There I'm just a woman and... and... things are different Up There. And I need you."

The anger leaves him and Alice finds herself gazing into green eyes. He lifts a hand, grasps her wrist, and pulls her hand gently away from his mouth. He hovers over her, his stare speculative and weighing. "You need me," he repeats. It is not a confirmation or a plea. It is a fact. As is the statement that follows it: "I'm going with you."

He allows Alice to take his broadsword from his grasp. She can sense him following her into the bedroom where she replaces it in its corner and, opening the wardrobe, removes something he _will _be able to use.

"You'll need a new suit. In a dark, somber color. And the trousers will have to cover your ankles. Matching stockings would be a good idea..." She turns back around and presses his leather gauntlets and throwing knives against his chest. "And we'll have to find a knife you can wear under your jacket so that—"

And then she can't speak for the lips hungrily kneading her own. She shuffles back as Tarrant pushes forward and exhales in surprise as her back meets the closed wardrobe doors. Tarrant reaches between them and the gauntlets are tossed aside somewhere – she'll check later! – and his hands are delving beneath her now-untucked shirt.

"_Alice..._" he gasps between hot, feverishly mad kisses. "You need me, Alice. Say it."

She moves, arcs, stretches helplessly as his rough palms chafe up her bare sides. "I need you."

He presses against her and rubs his whole body against hers in one surging motion. "To protect you," he growls against her collarbone.

Dimly, Alice notices that several tunic buttons have come undone. Had they undone themselves or had Tarrant somehow...? She watches as his tea-stained teeth scrape against the fabric and, with a swift bite and jerk of his chin, another button is released.

_Oh..._ she muses, breathless.

"Say it, Alice," he reminds her, moving downward and working her vest open.

"Protect us," she whispers.

He pauses long enough to look up at her through his brows and Alice marvels at the royal blue of his eyes: love and passion in equal measure. "I will," he promises and nuzzles the shirt open just enough to breathe against her breast. "I will, Alice, I will."

And how can she refuse him that promise? How can she when she wants so _desperately_ to undo the hurt she's caused? How can she when she _does _want him by her side in London? How can she when she wants – more than anything – to be his _equal_ and not merely a _Champion?_

"I need..." she gasps, struggling with coherency as his mouth steals her breath.

"What, my Alice?" he asks on a faint lisp. "What do you need?"

She gently but firmly pushes him away from her bared breasts and struggles for focus. "Many things," she says, "that only you can give me."

"Tell me." His rough, hot hands slide around to her back and then down to her hips.

"I'll need..." She leans closer, unable to resist the silent siren's call of his much-kissed lips. "... a hat."

"A hat," he echoes, his brows twitching in surprise, confusion, and bewilderment. She almost misses the flash of excitement and satisfaction in his expression.

She nods, brushing her lips against his. "Yes. _Please_, Hatter. Make me a hat."

And then his hands are in her hair and his lips are on hers again and she's glad she'd gotten that request out while she'd still been able to remember it because...

... because if she'd expected her request to dilute his passion or distract him from his purpose, she would have been _monumentally_ mistaken.

* * *

[End of Chapter 6]


	90. Book 3, Upland London, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Seven: Upland London  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

"Where's your hat?"

Tarrant turns, exceptionally happy to have an excuse to look away from his reflection in the workshop looking glass, and feels his burgeoning grin fade as he absorbs the sight of the woman just entering the room.

"Alice?" He frowns thoughtfully at his wife. "I don't wish to upset you, but that... that _garment_ is..."

_Dreadful,_ he thinks, studying the utterly unremarkable and overly conservative lines of the... dress? Yes, it must be a dress, although he'd always thought dresses were worn so that a lady might enjoy the experience of wearing it. _This_ creation – whatever its purpose – provides no such luxury. The color is utterly uninteresting – a dark slate blue. The style is unforgivably conservative – a high collar, long sleeves, and unadorned skirt, the hem of which brushes the floor with every step. How very... _blah!_

If he hadn't _Known _better, he'd assume that the woman _in _the dress is equally dull and unimaginative! _The Injustice!_ Luckily, he does _Know _better, but that doesn't change the fact that the garment makes Alice appear horribly conservative, severe, and aloof. Yet he _Knows_ she is none of those things. Well, not without considerable provocation!

"I know," Alice replies. Her gaze moves over him as he models his Uplandish suit. He knows what she sees: the dark and dour grey, the restrictive cut... His own reflection – a man with long, wavy auburn hair in utterly unremarkable and oppressive clothing – depresses him. "Your suit as well," she says with an apologetic smile.

Tarrant sighs. "I don't think I shall enjoy this Upland London you've spoken of, Alice." He tugs at his unembroidered cuffs and boringly straight lapels.

Still, it's a small price to pay for the progress he's made; finally, he will not be relegated to the curb, to the periphery of the battle while his Alice confronts the challenges she must face; _finally _he will stand _beside his Alice!_

Her Champion.

Her Champion in an utterly unremarkable and oppressive suit, but her Champion nonetheless!

"Likely not. Although you might find the complete boorishness of it amusing to mock."

"Is that how you survived fashions like these?"

"Absolutely. When in doubt, imagine the men in dresses and the women in trousers."

Tarrant snorts out a frantic laugh. "I shall keep your suggestion in mind."

Alice links her arm through his and turns both of them toward the mirror. "We look like a perfectly normal couple from London Society," she muses with resignation. "Well, except for my hair. Too short. But there's no help for it."

"The queen could brew an elixir for it," Tarrant says, turning to press a kiss to her temple.

"No, it'll be all right."

Tarrant swallows a sigh. They've already argued this point: Alice cannot ask the queen for any sorts of potions without revealing the fact that she's carrying a child. Despite Tarrant's opinion on the matter – that it's _high time_ Alice made the announcement! – Alice had insisted that revealing the truth now wouldn't help the situation at all: as the only Uplander in Underland, Alice would _still _be required to go, but now the queen would have a whole new weight of worry to bear.

After a moment more of contemplating their uninspiring disguises, Tarrant watches as Alice turns away and surveys the workshop. "Where's your hat?" she asks again.

Tarrant nods toward his usual chair at the tea table in the room. Alice strides over and picks it up. He leans toward her when she returns to his side and places his top hat upon his head. He feels himself smiling – quite broadly! – and his heart swells at both the gesture and the memory it calls forth.

Alice remembers, too:

"There. That's better," she tells him, brushing her fingertips against the worn edge of the brim.

"It makes the suit look even more morose," he tells her, still smiling. "I think it's best if I leave it here," he concludes, reaching up to remove it.

Alice's fingers wrap around his wrist and stop him. "No, don't do that," she says, surprising him. "Your father and mother crafted that for you. They're... part of it. So that makes this hat part of our... family. I don't want you to leave it behind."

He aches at the sheer quantity of uncertainty encapsulated in those simple statements: What will happen once they leave Underland? Will they be able to return soon? Will there _be_ an Underland to return to? Or will they fail in their mission to keep it safe and whole?

Tarrant doesn't know what to say, so he says nothing. The hat remains where Alice had placed it: upon his head. And the heartache remains where it had taken root: deep within his chest.

"I have something for you," Tarrant somehow manages despite his aching throat. "Your request." He turns away and removes a singularly unique piece of headwear from a featureless mannequin. A soft smile stretching his lips, he gently settles it upon Alice's head. "Is it sufficient?" he asks, knowing it is that and so much more.

He studies his wife in the unique creation. It's a study in contradictions: a cloche with a wide brim varying in width, reminiscent of a fan-tail yet conceals more than it reveals, a whimsical piece with a veil that appears from beneath a trio of down-and-forward sweeping feathers on the left and flutters mysteriously beneath the brim before gathering up beneath an assortment of ribbons on the right. Meandering brass beads and golden scripty-scrolling-stitching against the indigo cap create a midnight sky in motion.

It is, undeniably, an Alice hat. And it is also one of Tarrant's most skillful creations to date. No one will notice the face beneath this emerald-and-mint striped brim and the smoke grey veil that drapes beneath it. No one will wonder if the eyes of the woman who wears it match the shimmering sapphire-and-emerald feathers or the bronze daisies peeking out from above and beneath the puffed, silk hat band.

Yes... a _very _Alice hat. _A very Alice Hightopp hat!_

"Alice? Is it sufficient?" he repeats when the silence has gone on for longer than he'd bothered to count.

"You... made this... just this morning?"

"No," he giggles, enjoying the adoration in her tone. "I made my suit today. Your hat..." He can't resist trailing his fingers along the feathers. "... I made yesterday evening." It had come to him in a vision as she'd described the sort of hat she would need, the sort that would enable her to move about freely in a society that considers her a ghost. Oh, he always has several Alice hats in mind, just in case she should ever ask him to make one for her. It had been a dream come true to hear those words from her.

_"Make me a hat..."_

And now, something from his Mind and his Hands that she had Invited into Reality touches her intimately, shelters her, illustrates both her possession of _him _and his devotion to _her._

"I've been waiting a long time to make hats for you, my Alice," he murmurs. "And, if you'll permit me, this and your Hightopp top hat will not be the last of them."

"I adore everything you create. And this is... exquisite," she murmurs. But as she studies her reflection her smile dims.

Tarrant swallows back a sudden surge of panic at the sight of her disappointment. "What is it?" he forces himself to ask. Does the scent of the feathers make her nose itch? Perhaps the lining of the cap itself is too warm? Or maybe—

"_Everyone_ will notice this," she replies sadly. "It's so lovely it's impossible not to."

And suddenly he understands what troubles her. "Alice," he replies, his chest feeling as if it's cracked open with relief. "You are entirely correct. Everyone will notice your hat." He pauses. "Instead of _you_."

Alice blinks at him and then she smiles, laughs, relaxes. "You're right. It's the perfect disguise. Thank you, Tarrant."

"You are most welcome, my Alice."

And so, with them both of them hatted properly in Hightopp haberdashery, they leave the workroom. Tarrant closes the door behind them and tries not to wonder when he'll be back.

Their trunk – already packed – and Alice's valise are waiting beside the mirror in the queen's office. They've already safely stored the potions Mirana had prepared for them: the Pain Paste and Wound Winder and Pishsalver and Upelkuchen. Tarrant's gauntlets are on his wrists and the knife he'd found to suit him tucked against his ribs with the aid of the special buckles he'd fashioned on the inside of his coat. Oshtyer's revolver is in Alice's valise with a small bundle of odd, paper money Alice had recovered from their guest's pockets. He'd made a face at the currency, but Alice had been quite adamant about taking it along.

They make a detour past Oshtyer's room on the way to the Royal Office, but the guards report that there's been no change in the man's condition.

"That bump may do him in yet," Tarrant murmurs, momentarily distracted from their journey by the odd combination of relief, disgust, and trepidation that assails him at that moment.

Alice sighs. "I suppose it doesn't really matter. We probably couldn't have trusted anything he would have said."

"Aye," Tarrant concurs.

They head back up the stairs and with every step they take in the direction of the queen's office, Tarrant feels his shoulders tense and Alice's hand tighten on his arm. At the door, they both draw a deep breath. Tarrant reaches for the door handle, pauses, then sweeps off his hat, lifts Alice's veil out of the way, ducks beneath the brim of her hat, and kisses her. Thoroughly.

He presses his hand gently against her stomach and rubs small circles against the drab fabric of her dress.

_I'm frightened, _he doesn't say.

_I'm worried, _he doesn't confess.

_I can't be without you,_ he doesn't remind her.

But when he pulls back and Alice reclaims his hat in order to set it upon his head again, he sees the acceptance in her eyes. No, those words had not been spoken, but they had been revealed to her nonetheless.

"Are you ready?" she asks and he notes she does _not _ask him if he's _sure._ He is not more sure of anything else in this moment: _I must be with you, wherever you go._

"Yes," he replies and opens the door.

Within, the queen, the king, and the King's Champion are waiting. The mirror, a large, free-standing piece that does not require Pishsalver to pass through, shows the interior of what seems to be a young lady's bedroom.

"Good afternoon, Tarrant, Alice," Mirana greets, smiling through her worries.

"Your Majesty," he returns, closing the door behind them.

They don't have to tell her that Oshtyer has not yet awakened. Had he done so, Mirana and Dale would have been immediately informed. The queen renews her smile and manages a steadying confidence this time. "Alice, Tarrant, I have something for you."

Tarrant approaches the desk and gazes down at the objects to which she'd gestured: two small compact mirrors.

"I've connected these looking glasses," the queen explains, "and I'd like you to keep one of these with you as we'll be able to use it to send correspondence." Mirana doesn't say that they'll also be a means of escape should something Very Bad happen, but Tarrant hears the unspoken words. _Alice! Th' littlin'! _Tarrant fears he would not be able to withstand the pain should something Happen to either of them. He covers Alice's gloved left hand with his own and squeezes her fingers.

"Thank you, Mirana," Alice says, reaching for one of the silver-set mirrors and moving away to tuck it into her valise.

"Krystoval sent something along for you," Leif says, moving toward Tarrant. He feels his heart suddenly race at the sight of the purple, viscous fluid filling the vials in the lion's hand. "As a last resort." And then the lion grins and shrugs. "Those aren't Krystoval's _exact _words; that Jabberwocky really enjoys drama and doom, I'll say that much, though."

"What _were_ Krystoval's exact words?" Alice asks.

Leif huffs. "'For use in the event that the circumstances you find yourselves in become unbearable...' I think. That's pretty close."

"Drama and doom, indeed," Alice agrees and Leif chuckles.

Tarrant accepts the vials and tucks them into his best pocket with a nod. Having jabberwocky blood in his possession makes his skin crawl and his heart ache and his mind whirl with painful memories, but he feels Alice's touch through the heart line and it loosens the grip of his panic enough to allow him to breathe.

_A last resort. To escape unbearable circumstances._

Yes, yes, that would have to be the case for Alice to drink the Jabberwock's blood. It's anyone's guess what _could _happen to the littlin' if she were to attempt to travel that way. And it would have to be an inconceivably _urgent _set of circumstances for Tarrant to even _consider _drinking his own vial and _leaving his wife and child __**behind!**_

"Has the Oraculum unrolled at all?" Alice asks, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow again.

Mirana shakes her head.

Alice lets out a gusty breath. "And Absolem's task? Has he started...?"

"Yes. We are not sure how long it will take to strengthen the earth between Underland and Upland, but – through Intentional Magic – we hope it will be soon."

Alice nods. "We'll send you word through the mirror as often as we can."

The queen smiles. "And I shall leave the connection open so that you will have no trouble doing so."

With that reassurance, Alice bows to the king then gives Leif a wry smile. "I can't believe I'm leaving you here to cause trouble by yourself."

He grunts out a chuckle. "Maybe I'll surprise you and behave myself."

"'Surprise' would hardly be apt, in that case," she counters. Tarrant studies her expression – concern, anxiety, guilt. Yes, he knows Alice feels guilty for leaving Underland when there is still so much that needs to be done. Magic to be Awoken and Woven, homes to be rebuilt, earth to be healed, people to be organized and calmed. Tarrant resists a sigh: how could he have ever doubted Alice's nature? How could he have _ever _thought that a single promise would have been strong enough to mold her temperament into a Champion's? No, his wife has _always _been a Champion... and – he expects – she _always _will be.

"Well, then, it's time to be underway," the queen says, stepping forward. Tarrant feels Alice's hand leave his arm and then the queen and her Champion are locked together in a tight embrace. "Fairfarren, Alice. Be safe."

"And you, Mirana," Tarrant hears his wife manage thickly.

Pulling back, the queen immediately shifts her attention to Tarrant, "Fairfarren, Tarrant. Be safe."

He nods. "We'll send a note as soon as we're through." He gestures to the small mirror still resting on the queen's desk.

"Yes," she agrees. "And you'll hear from me very soon."

And, Tarrant realizes, that everything that had needed to be said has been. He reaches for his wife's hand and interlaces their fingers. "Together," he reminds her.

"Together," she agrees, her eyes shining with unshed tears. She accepts the valise from him and he lifts the small trunk by the handle. And then Tarrant steps up to and through the looking glass.

* * *

**Author's Note:** For those of you curious about Alice's hat, there's an illustration on my homepage. Just follow the link to Book 3, then on the Chapter List, you'll see _Chapter Seven: Upland London_ | _Notes & Illustrations_. Click the latter and you'll find it. Both a line drawing and color illustration have been posted.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7: Scene 1 of 2]


	91. Book 3, Upland London, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Seven: Upland London  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Alice had expected Tarrant to be curious about (and then, unavoidably disappointed with) the world she'd been born into. She just hadn't expected him to examine every object in her old room as if it were some sort of strange puzzle whose solution were as necessary as his next breath of air.

While they'd waited for the house to empty for the day – Alice's mother, who she could hear speaking to the housekeeper downstairs, to her charity functions and the staff to the daily shopping and other errands – Tarrant had amused himself (mostly silently) with the artifacts from Alice's childhood.

He'd been particularly taken with her collection of kaleidoscopes:

"How does this fascinating object work?" he'd lisped from where he'd lain across the foot of her somewhat dusty bed.

Alice had looked up from the note she was sending to the queen through the compact looking glass and had explained about lenses and mirrors and colored glass and Tarrant had giggled and peered into one tube after another.

When he'd exhausted his curiosity over the single framed photograph of her family – taken when her father had still been alive – and the dolls she'd played with as a child, he'd carefully pried open the wardrobe door and had very nearly exclaimed – despite the lingering presence of others in the house – over a pair of ice skates that Alice had completely forgotten about.

"What sort of terrain requires one to outfit oneself in a pair of shoes that have blades fitted to its underside?" Tarrant had muttered, nursing the new cut on his finger that he'd acquired when he'd tested the blade's edge despite Alice's hissed warning.

Even though he'd whispered protests about wasting ointment on so trivial an injury, Alice had massaged a bit of Pain Paste onto the cut.

"You can't go around bleeding here," she'd reminded him as she cleaned up the smears of blue. "If anyone sees that blue blood of yours, they'll cart you off the some laboratory for scientific study!"

And how on earth would she rescue him if _that _happened?

_That would most __**definitely**__ be an occasion for jabberwocky blood..._

Not that she would dare drink it herself... not that he'd ever dare to leave her here in London alone. Not that she _can _drink it, even if the occasion calls for it.

Alice passes her hands over her stomach and, not for the first time, wonders at the miracle she and Tarrant are creating, wonders at her own abilities to see this choice through, wonders at her own capabilities as both a Champion and a mother and she wonders at the fact that she is here – in her mother's house in London – now – married, with child, intent on saving an entire _world_. And she has to admit to herself that _not once _had she ever imagined that the circumstances of her return to Upland would be anything like _this._

"Alice?"

She turns at the sound of his worried lisp. "Raven." And then she smiles through a pair of tears as he enfolds her in a warm, secure embrace.

According to the clock, two hours pass before the front door opens and closes one last time. Alice moves quietly – just in case! – to the door and cracks it open. She's just stuck her head out into the hall to confirm the emptiness of the second floor when Tarrant giggles.

Frowning, Alice looks over her shoulder and sighs as he unabashedly inspects a drawer full of her unmentionables. "All of these stockings look never-before-worn!" He lifts out a pair that had, undoubtedly, been meant for the legs of a girl of no older than ten. "Your dislike of the things has been rather life-long, hasn't it?"

"I'm afraid so," she answers and then gestures for him to follow her.

They encounter no one as they carry their things down the hall and descend the stairs. She knows Tarrant wants to linger in the house and investigate _everything _but he restrains himself and – moments later – Alice is leading him out the back door, through the tiny garden, past the gate and into the narrow alley behind the house. Thankful for her hat and veil – "I can remove the veil if you'd like... later," he'd offered and Alice had never appreciated his optimism more! – Alice steps out onto the coal dust-coated main street. She warns Tarrant to watch where he steps and starts looking for a cab for hire.

Pressing a handkerchief to her nose and mouth, Alice moves toward the next major intersection. Beside her, a bright flash of color alerts her to Tarrant following her example. She glances at him and notices his eyes are the color of disgust and she'd have to agree with him. Already she misses the clean, invigorating air of Mamoreal. At least her stomach doesn't protest too badly, thanks to the Himoha she'd packed for the trip.

A cab is procured and their things stowed within. They rattle along the streets toward the hotel Alice had named.

"Where are we going?" Tarrant asks, his voice muffled by the handkerchief.

Alice smiles as he leans toward the window, his wide, peridot-green eyes and curious gaze taking in the passersby and residents. The shop mongers call out tempting prices and promises to entice customers to purchase a bouquet or an orange or a good shoe-polishing. Beggars shuffle out from alleys to ask for a pence or some other pittance. Children struggle to keep up with their mothers. The lucky ones shout and holler as they race each other through the crowds, unencumbered by a parent.

"It's very crowded here, Alice," he observes, sitting back a bit, his knees brushing against hers in the small space.

"The hotel we're going to should be more comfortable."

"Hotel?" he asks.

"Oh, um, an inn. Of sorts."

He frowns. "Is that where we'll be staying? Not with... oh, of course. Not with your family. No, no, of course not. Sorry."

Alice smiles to show him that the apology had been completely unnecessary. Yes, it hurts to know her mother is so close and yet Alice must avoid her: their first priority is Underland, after all. And Alice had made that choice a very long time ago. Still, it stings.

She glances out the window and blinks back tears. Frustrated with herself and her overbearing emotions, Alice forces herself to continue in a neutral tone, "If they have a room, yes, we'll stay the night at the hotel. It's near the ferry wharf... well, near the passenger port. Mostly, travelers pass through there. Strangers." And with Alice's "death" to consider, strangers would be the best sort of company to be amongst.

Tarrant nods and glances back out the window. A moment later, he gasps. "What is _that?_"

Alice leans across the space between the benches and follows his gaze. "Oh, that would be Big Ben."

"I can see it would be quite impossible to kill Time here," he mutters weakly. "Not with a veritable _monument _to him looming over everyone!"

Alice laughs. "Londoners _are _slaves to Time," she agrees.

The cab lurches a bit as it goes around a corner, then lurches a bit more and the driver shouts at someone who hadn't been quick enough stepping up onto the curb and out of the muck of the street. Tarrant twitches and looks up, in the direction of the loud, angry voice.

"Alice?"

"Yes?" she replies, guessing what's coming.

"Can we... that is, if possible... as soon as possible... could we...?"

Alice reaches for his hand and winces when he grabs her fingers and holds them _very_ tightly. "We'll be back home before you know it. Just a bit longer, Raven," she assures him.

He relaxes at the familiar words and the beloved endearment. "Thank you, Alice."

"Thank you for coming with me," she counters. _With us_, she corrects herself.

His smile is weaker than she'd hoped for, but it is heartfelt, she can see and _feel _that much at least. "I couldn't not, my Alice."

The cab ride is a typical one in London in the middle of the day and, when the cab pauses for a moment at an intersection, she throws propriety out the window and slides from her seat onto the bench next to Tarrant. He threads his arm through hers and clasps her hand hard, sighing with relief. There is more jostling and shouting from the driver, all completely normal in a city this size, but with each unfamiliar noise Alice feels her husband tense beside her. Not _only_ Tarrant is relieved when the carriage finally halts and the driver calls out their destination.

They descend and Alice gestures for Tarrant to take her hand and help her down, which he does. She gives him a smile and a wink, then turns and pays the driver with a few of the pennies she'd found forgotten in her jewelry box in her old room. When she pivots back around she has to stifle a giggle at the sight of Tarrant's slack-jawed amazement.

"An... inn, you said, Alice?"

She takes his arm. "A hotel," she corrects and urges him up the steps of the massive brick structure. She has to admit it _is _rather impressive. Not in the way Mamoreal is, of course. There's no grace to be found here, simply a solid, massive example of masonry.

The doorman ushers them inside and Alice navigates Tarrant through the lobby to the welcome desk. They procure a room – and Alice is very happy that Oshtyer had been carrying a sizable bundle of paper pounds on him when he'd fallen through to Underland. She knows she'll have to visit the bank to change a few bills into smaller, more useful denominations, but manages to exchange one quid for shillings and pennies before the porter – a lad no older than twenty – arrives to escort them up to their room. Alice has to nudge Tarrant before he'll relinquish their trunk to him. Frowning, he does so and they head up the stairs. On the fourth floor, they enter their room and Alice slips a penny into the boy's palm.

Tarrant closes the door, his brows drawn together in an expression of puzzlement Alice expects she'll have to become used to very quickly here. Before he can ask, she says, "It's appreciated when services are rewarded."

"With coins?" he confirms.

"Don't worry about it," she replies, lifting off her hat and setting it carefully on the hall vanity. She pulls off her right glove and brushes her fingertips over Tarrant's brow and down past his cheekbones. "You're in Upland now. I'll take care of the details, if you'll take care of us."

His arms come around her and he presses a kiss to the side of her neck. "Tha's what I promised ye, Alice, an' I _will. _Th' twine o' ye_._"

They spend an hour in the room: Tarrant investigates the odd fixtures and amenities and Alice explains the purpose of a shoehorn and coal scuttle (the name of which Tarrant finds _highly_ amusing: "_Scut! Scuttle! Scuttler!_" he snickers).

"This... coal substance," he murmurs, serious once again. He considers the black, dusty mass, "is burned often for warmth? Why is it so cold here? Or do Uplanders use the hearth for other reasons?"

"England is generally cool. And rainy," she allows. "The seasons are different here," she adds, reflecting on the odd phenomenon of a sunrise and sunset one can set one's timepiece by in Underland... all year round.

Tarrant frowns. "Why don't Londoners have several days at once then? It's warmer that way. Especially in the winter. But I suppose that would make it two or three times as wet, wouldn't it..."

Alice blinks, surprised. "Two or three days at a time...? Wait, is that why Mamoreal is always buried in snow in winter but never frightfully cold?"

"It's different here?"

She marvels at how honestly shocked he is by the concept of only one day occurring at a time. "Yes. It's different." And before he can ask yet another question, one she's sure will require quite a bit of doodling and possibly some visual aids, Alice says, "If there's time before we leave, I'll take you to Brompton Boilers." Brompton Boilers, officially known as the South Kensington Museum and home of London's wealth of scientific knowledge and industrial technology. Well, outside of a university, anyway.

Tarrant's eyebrows arc with inquisitiveness and Alice sighs through her smile.

"I'm sure we can find answers to _many _of your questions there."

He grins the grin of a delighted school-age boy. And when her husband wears a grin like that, she can't resist a quick kiss and a tickle.

"_Merrianglin'!_" he accuses her on a high-pitched giggle and she laughs with him.

"Come on," Alice says after they've wound down on a sigh. "Let's get something to eat downstairs. I need to check today's date."

Alice wonders if Tarrant's amazement at his surroundings will ever cease to entertain and enlighten her. Of course she enjoys seeing an utterly flunderwhapped expression on his face – she doesn't have the opportunity to witness it often what with his familiarity with everything Underlandian and his genius and intuition constantly at the forefront of his mind. And, as Alice studies his impressions, she finds herself seeing London – and all of Upland Society – in a new light. Growing up, she'd often disagreed with the social conventions and the expectations that others had had of her, but she'd never really _seen _London from the perspective of a foreigner. And, despite his perfect command of the English language, Tarrant _is _a foreigner. He hadn't played in these streets or sung the rhymes that Alice had grown up chanting. He hadn't heard the stories or learned the history or science that Alice had. With a slight start, Alice realizes that, for the first time, she has the opportunity to be his teacher of Upland rather than his student of Underland.

Perhaps a visit to Brompton Boilers _is_ in order before they return to Underland...

_Just as soon as we sort this out,_ she reminds herself and requests the menu and a newspaper.

And with their orders placed and Tarrant giggling at his place setting and the assortment of triplicate forks, duplicate spoons, and knife – which is precisely the same in Mamoreal as it is here in London, interestingly enough – Alice reaches for the newspaper, gapes at the date and gasps.

"What is it?"

She glances up. "The date. Today's date." Her mind refuses to produce a more comprehensive thought than that.

"Yes?" his prompts in a worried lisp. "What is today's date?"

Alice stares into his peridot-green eyes. "It's... it's only been twenty-three months since the ship... Since you..."

He scowls. "Time," he grunts and it is both an answer and an accusation. "The queen told us he wasnae teh be trusted when travelin' be-twix Up an' Under."

"How is this possible?" Alice wonders aloud.

Tarrant fiddles with his salad fork. "Perhaps it's all those combined winter nights? Lingering moments and such? They're quite frequent in times of peace..."

She shakes her head, closes her eyes, and decides she simply cannot spare the energy to think about it now. Perhaps later. If she has absolutely _nothing _else with which to occupy her time. Rousing herself, Alice unfolds the newspaper and once again bids farewell to her peace of mind:

**DEMOLITION A SUCCESS – NEXT STOP IS EARL'S COURT**

Alice forces herself to _read _the article rather than skim irresponsibly through it as she had with the Thrice a-Vow. Surely, she's learned her lesson since then! Still, it's hard to keep herself from reading ahead of the printed words.

"Alice?"

Even after she has finished reading the article, she can't look away from the paper. Dear Fates, but it had been easy to discover the source of Underland's earthquake and the gaping hole in the throne room of Palace Avenfaire. Frighteningly easy. _Dealing_ with the source of the trouble, however...

Alice swallows. Or tries to, anyway.

_This is impossible..._

"Alice?"

And because she very much needs to hear Tarrant tell her that things are impossible _only if you believe they are_, she meets his gaze and tells him, "I think I know what caused the earthquake."

He leans over his place setting, eyes wide and eager. "What was it?"

"This," she replies, nodding to the paper. "A new train system in London. An _underground_ train system."

He considers that concept; his full attention is bent on the task. Alice hurries to give him all the information he needs to understand the situation:

"This isn't the first underground railway they've built in London, but yesterday was the first time they used dynamite to excavate the station."

"Die-name-it?"

"Dynamite," she repeats and struggles to explain it. "I... it's..." She flounders.

"Is it dangerous?" Tarrant asks, cutting to the heart of the matter with his usual skill.

"Very."

"And could it create a hole, cause an earth-quaking?"

"I can't think of anything else that can. Not so efficiently and quickly."

"And they used this... die-namite yesterday? Which would have been several days ago in Underland?"

"Yes. To clear the way for a train station with three platforms."

Tarrant's eyes flicker and his brows twitch with his thoughts. "Are they planning on using die-namite again?"

Alice nods. "In a little over two weeks. They're going to... to _blast _again. A different station. A bigger one."

"How much bigger?" he asks softly, apprehensively.

"Twice as large." She meets his wide-eyed and horrified stare. "And that's not the end of it. Because yesterday's demolition was a success, they're considering using dynamite on _more _future underground construction."

Alice ignores her table manners, braces her elbows against the tabletop and covers her mouth with her hands... as if she could somehow re-trap the words she'd just spoken. As if she could somehow make them less true. Less real. Less utterly terrifying.

When Tarrant gestures for the newspaper, an obstinate expression on his face, she relinquishes it without an argument. He stares at the article while she indulges in a few minutes of very un-Champion-y, mind-blanking panic.

"How am I supposed to fight this?" she hears herself whisper on a half-choked breath. There are no swords or garrotes that can conquer this foe. For even if she _could _somehow eliminate the chairmen of the London Underground project, she knows only more will take their place. Alice is not dueling a suitor, battling a jabberwocky, or facing off against mercenaries... She is fighting _progress _itself!

"Alice!"

With a start, she focuses on Tarrant. "Sorry. I'm fine." Thankfully, he ignores the bald-faced lie.

He clears his throat. "This article says this station is owned by –" He glances down to confirm his recollection. "– the Metropolitan District Railway."

"Yes..." Alice agrees after a moment of expectant silence.

"Well... isn't that a... business of some kind?"

"Yes..."

Tarrant tilts his head to the side. "Correct me if I'm wrong, Alice, but you know a thing or two about business, don't you?"

"_Only _a thing or two. I utterly failed at it when I was an apprentice with the trading company."

Tarrant considers her with narrowed eyes. He shakes his head. "No, no... You offered Valereth's mercenaries land and opportunity to sway them. Can't you sway this company from using dynamite again?"

"Even if I could, what good would it do? This is the trend of the future: underground earthworks. Underland won't be safe forever."

He taps his fingers against the edge of his plate. She recognizes the rhythm: the Waltz of the Tumtum Tree. "Wha' d'ye ken abou' Intentional Magic?"

"About as much as you know about Upland weather patterns."

He cackles, snorts, and clears his throat. "Ah, well, it's very strong magic as it comes from the _intentions _of those who believe in it."

"Three butterflies are going to have to employ quite a lot of muchness to accomplish much of anything at all."

Tarrant shakes his head at her. "No, no, Absolem and the others are the _Masters_. It's the intentions of everyone in _Underland_ that gives the magic its strength and..." He glances at her through his brows. "I think we can assume that _everyone _in Underland is hoping for the same thing right now..."

"You mean, with everyone focused on keeping Underland safe from Upland...?"

"The Masters _will _be able to stop future dynamite-quakings."

Alice feels a tentative smile form on her lips. "Can they do... or prepare... whatever it is they have to within two weeks' time?"

"I wouldn't know... But, if they can't?"

She bites her lip. "I have no idea how I could delay that project."

Tarrant hesitantly offers, "I know I've only been here a few hours but... this London... money's important here?"

"Very. It's arguably the most important thing for most people." Yet another reason why she loves Underland so dearly.

"We have money," he reminds her.

She sighs. "Not _nearly_ enough. I'd have to be one of the wealthiest women in the whole city to even approach them successfully. Convince them to delay. But I'm no one here. Not anymore. Everyone thinks I died at sea almost two years ago..."

Alice sits up straight with a gasp, eyes wide and staring.

"Alice?"

Her hands begin to shake as her path – his path, _their _path – comes to her, one inconceivable step at a time.

"Raven?"

She blinks and focuses on him. "I have to..."

"What?" Tarrant's fingers clutch the table edge.

"I have to write a letter to Mirana."

He nods, watches her, waits.

"And, tomorrow morning, I have to talk to my former employer."

"Lord Ascot? Why, Alice?"

Her lips compress into a thin line. "It's a good thing you can remove that veil from my hat because, after tomorrow, I don't think I'm going to need it."

"You won't?" he asks. His hands relax their grip. His eyes sparkle with Plans and Plots and Possibilities.

"I won't," she confirms, her stomach knotting with tension and uncertainty. Her smile wobbles alarmingly. "Because, after tomorrow, I don't believe I'll be dead anymore."

* * *

**Author's Note:** I did a bit or research for this fan fiction. I'm sure I've made mistakes with accuracy, but I tried to keep things in the realm of possibility. At least with regards to Alice and Tarrant's experiences in London. If you're curious about that research, just follow the link to my homepage, then go to Book 3, and on the Chapter List, you'll see _Chapter Seven: Upland London_ | _Notes & Illustrations_. The notes are on the same page with the hat illustrations.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7]


	92. Book 3, East Venture Trading, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Eight: East Venture Trading  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

Leif stares at the looking glass, dark again, and frowns. It amazes him that with a single footstep Alice and the Hatter had somehow passed into another world, another realm.

Upland.

Despite his curiosity of the place, he can't say he envies the Queen's Champion and the Royal Hatter their quest.

"Leif, why don't you stay for dinner before you head back? You look as if you could do with a rest," the queen invites.

Looking away from the mirror, he gives her an apologetic smile. "If I only I could allow myself the privilege, Your Majesty, but I really must be getting back to Shuchland."

Mirana sighs.

Dale smiles, "Well, you can spare a few minutes, can't you? Tarra's been asking for you. And, last I heard, she was pestering Thackery about hosting a tea party for you when you get back."

Leif chuckles at the thought. "Well, then I shalln't keep Her Highness waiting. Where do you suppose...?"

"The kitchen, undoubtedly," Mirana says. "Thackery was there when you came through, wasn't he?"

"Yes, setting his pots and pans to order." The hare _had _looked rather pleased about finally having all the injured and stressed strangers out of his kitchen.

"Well, no doubt he's told Tarra that you're here, or she's found out somehow. I'm sure you'll be accosted the moment you open the door."

Grinning, Leif replies. "I look forward to it, then. Good day, Your Majesties."

Letting himself out of the office, Leif heads down the hall to the stairs. He knows he shouldn't take the time for something as frivolous as a tea party of all things; there's so much to be done in Shuchland!

_Just ten minutes,_ he promises himself. _Just ten minutes and then I'll go back through the looking glass._

Taking a deep breath and steels his resolve for the battle of wills he knows is coming, Leif opens the kitchen door...

... and has to cover his mouth to hide the snort of amusement.

"There! _Now _you look perfect, Thackery!" With a nod, Tarra steps back to admire her work.

Thackery, his fur groomed flat and glossy, has never looked so... sane. His collar has been straightened and his vest pulled down to cover the waist of his trousers. His jacket is pristine of shed fur and a snowy white towel is draped over his trembling arm.

"Ar!" he exclaims, looking up at Leif's entrance. Again, Leif has to bite back a laugh at the pure _relief_ the hare exhibits in his expression.

"Leif!" Tarra shouts and streaks across the kitchen toward him.

"There ye are, laddie!" Thackery twitches as Tarra flies into Leif's arms and he scoops her up in an often-practiced move. "Yer missus 'as been waitin' tae long already!" And when Leif doesn't immediately rush to the table, the hare shouts, "Well? Where's yer manners, lad! See yer missus teh th'table!"

"I missed you!" Tarra informs him with a scowl. "How come you had to stay away so long? Are you hungry? Thackery made scones. Not my favorite kind though. He says he has too many berries, so they're Thrambleberry scones. I don't like Thrambleberries. They make my toes itch. Let's have some tea!"

Leif sets her down and holds out her chair for her, which she clamors into with much fluffing of petticoats and the occasional flash of a bare knee.

_What happened to her stockings?_ he briefly wonders and then decides he probably doesn't want to know. Well, only as long as Tarra hasn't tied anyone up with them and, say, left them in a bathtub... like he'd discovered a few months ago. He sighs at the memory. Poor Chestor. But at least he'd learned his lesson: do not play "Champion to the Rescue" with Tarra so close to dinner time. A single growl of her tiny stomach is enough to make her forget undone heroic deeds, her schoolwork, and even her shoes. Although Leif suspects she rather intentionally forgets her shoes. And her stockings as well, it seems.

He slides into the seat opposite her and lets Thackery serve them, moving his arms out of the way when a tray of scones is plopped on the table followed by a bowl of sugar cubes that wobbles on its edge precariously before Leif reaches out and steadies it.

"It's hard to balance the sugar bowl on edge. I've tried. It's _really _hard," Tarra informs him. She swings her legs beneath the table and kicks him in the knee with her shoe. (So she _had _remembered to put them on today, after all!) He calmly pours the tea rather than wait for Thackery to dribble it into their laps in a mockery of service.

"Yes, but how often have you practiced?" Leif inquires. "No one can learn to balance a sugar bowl in a day!"

"I learned to balance my sword! You wanna see?" And then she's scrambling out of her chair and fumbling for something on the floor. When she stands up again, a triumphant smile on her small face and her pale hair tangled and her dress askew, she announces, "Watch me, Leif!"

He raises his hands to applaud when she – true to her word – balances the blunt tip of the wooden blade on the palm of her hand. Just as he claps, she glances at him which breaks her concentration and Leif's reflexes save the teapot from a rather unfortunate collision with the plummeting weapon.

"That was very well done, Tarra," he says, holding the sword. "But why do you have this with you? You should leave it in the cabinet near the pitch."

"You and Alice don't leave _yours _there!"

He opens his mouth to argue...

"And he wanted to have tea with us today. It gets awfully lonely in the cabinet with no one to talk to."

"He?"

"Barnaby."

"Barnaby the... wooden sword?"

"No!" She rolls her eyes at him. "Barnaby the Blade! My bestest friend… except for you, but you're gone a lot lately so I needed a new one." She holds out her hands for... Barnaby.

A bit reluctantly, Leif returns the sword to her. "And Barnaby... talks?" he clarifies.

"All the time! Well, not all the time because you're here and he's shy, but he talks to Thackery, doesn't he, Thackery? Thackery said Barnaby wants me to eat my carrots, but I think Thackery heard him wrong because Barnaby doesn't like carrots, either."

"Is that so?"

"Uh huh. Leif... how come you're gone all the time now? Mumma says it's because you're busy, but you promised me you wouldn't be busy. Remember?"

He does. Months ago, he'd promised a very distressed princess that he would always make time for her. He's still not entirely sure what had caused her distress, but it might have had something to do with the brief trip he'd taken with the king to oversee the plans for the Orash orchard near Salazen Grum...

"I remember." He sighs. "But I have to help people now. You remember the earth-quake and all the people you helped your mumma make potions for?"

"Uh huh."

"Well, they live far away and they need my help."

"But I want you to _stay!_"

"I'm sorry, Tarrash-rya, I can't." The endearment slips out and Leif is startled to hear his own voice name this girl as the other half of his soul.

"Well, then I'll come with you!" she continues.

Deciding it would be best to chastise himself later, Leif shakes his head. "No, you have to stay here with your mumma."

"How come?"

"Because you're a princess."

"Well, maybe I don't wanna be a princess! It's not fair! I wanna go with you!"

Leif sighs. "I know. Promise me you'll stay with your mumma?" He reaches across the table and gently combs out her messy hair with the tips of his claws. "Please, Tarrash'rya?"

_Damn it! Not again! Where is your head, Leif?_

Her small hands grip his monstrously large, furry one and she nuzzles his palm with a giggle. "All right..."

"You promise?" he checks.

"I promise."

"All right, then. Thank you for the tea, Princess Tarranya, but I have to go now." He removes his hand from her grasp and stands. As expected, she scowls.

"It's not the end of teatime, yet," she argues. "Because I killed Time. Barnaby helped me. And Thackery showed me how, didn't you, Thackery? Thackery's killed Time before," she whispers conspiratorially.

"No, I di'nae!" the hare shouts from within the pantry. "Seen it done, never done it meself! 'Twas th'Hatter who killed Time fer his Alice!"

"Yes!" Tarra shouts with excitement. "And Thackery says you and me're just like Champion Alice and the Hatter! 'Cept you don't make hats."

Leif gapes at her. _Just like _Alice and the Hatter? What in all the realms of Underland is _that _supposed to mean?

_No,_ he decides. _I'd rather not know._

Luckily, he's distracted from asking. He looks over his shoulder at the kitchen door as the sounds of hurried footsteps advance... and then rush past. Tarra beats him to the door.

"What's going on?" she asks the doorknobs lining the hallway.

Before any can volunteer the information, the queen appears and lays a hand on her daughter's head. "I'm not sure, squimkin. Your papu is checking..."

The queen lifts her gaze to Leif – still framed in the doorway – and gives him a worried frown. He follows the slight inclination of her head down the hall in the direction of Oshtyer's room. Now scowling as well, Leif brushes by the princess – who is rather oblivious to the fact that she's standing squarely on the threshold and blocking the comings and goings to and from the kitchen. He reaches the bedroom door just in time for Dale to emerge, a somber expression on his face.

"Is he dead?" Leif asks in very quiet, low tone.

"Yes. We'll have to alert Alice and the Hatter."

"Hopefully they'll have news for you as well. Better news, anyway."

"As do I. Hope, that is."

Leif sighs. "With your permission, sire, I'll be returning to Shuchland now."

Dale nods and gives his Champion a brief pat on the arm. "Fairfarren, Leif."

"You're going now, aren't you?" Tarra accuses as he strides back down the hall toward the kitchen door.

"Yes," he tells her, reaching for the doorknob. "Are you going to see me off or shall we say our good-byes here."

She huffs. "Well, I'm a _princess_, aren't I?"

He grins as she stomps back into the kitchen. The queen smothers a giggle and Leif follows his... _lady_ over the threshold and over to the large mirror. Reaching it first, Tarra pivots and scowls at him, hands on her hips. "Fairfarren and don't get any sand up your nose," she tells him.

Leif struggles to keep his beaming grin from curving his mouth. "To you as well. May you protect the queen just as Alice would."

She blinks and smiles tentatively. "Does that mean you're gonna make me a hat?"

He laughs. "I'll make you _into _a hat if you don't behave yourself. A Tarra Cap."

Her lips purse and she glares up at him.

Relenting, he crouches down and opens his arms. After a moment of glaring and a flick of her eyes which tells him she's _seriously_ considering kicking him in the knee again – only intentionally this time! – she moves toward him and presses her forehead against his shoulder.

"Remember your promise; stay with your mumma and I'll be back again soon."

She sighs. "I know."

He presses a kiss to the top of her head, stands, tickles her beneath her chin, and then steps through the looking glass. He feels a gentle tug on his tail before he can pull it free completely and glares over his shoulder at the rippling glass.

"It's about time!"

Leif turns at the irritated huff. "What is it, Bayne?

The bloodhound snorts. "What else? The Jabberwocky, of course. Wants to talk to you... _again_."

Leif frowns. "What for?"

"Said he has a message for the queen."

"Well, it would have been nice if he'd mentioned it a bit sooner. Say, before I'd left?"

"Yeah, tell me about it. I missed out on dessert for this. These Shuchlanders sure know how to toss cookies."

"Wait until the Autumn Bake-off," he mutters.

Bayne narrows his eyes. "If the Jabberwocky interrupts _that _for me, I won't be responsible for my actions."

Leif would very much like to express his desire to see that, but as he expects he'll be calling upon the bloodhound's nose again in the near future, resists teasing him. With a sigh, Leif tramps out over the still-torn-and-tousled ground, in the direction of the brightest plumes of white-blue flame. Despite the fact that he's pretty sure the Jabberwocky could obliterate him with a single breath, Leif decides that a discussion is in order. Apparently, Kystoval is unaware of the fact that "message delivery lion" is _not _part of Leif's job description. And if the creature continues treating him as such, the two of them are going to have a problem!

* * *

[End of Chapter 8: Scene 1 of 2]


	93. Book 3, East Venture Trading, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Eight: East Venture Trading  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

The first order of business following breakfast the next day, according to Alice, is a visit to the site of the future Mansion House Underground Station. It had sounded like a rational next-step: confirm the existence of a hole from London to Underland. Or, at least, it _had _sounded like a good idea until they'd considered the necessary mode of transportation.

"Another cab?" Tarrant frowns at himself, at the wimbling quality of his whisper.

"I'm afraid so. I'm sorry."

"It's fine," he mutters and resolves to quit acting like an over-anxious cheese-maker's apprentice on his first day in the barn. He is a Hightopp, for the love of crystal buttons! And it's high time – but not _nearly_ high _tea_time, according to the lobby timepiece – he started acting like one! So Tarrant opens the door for Alice, holds her hand as he helps her into the rented carriage and does his best not to startle at every shout and slam as they roll through the streets again.

Alice sits beside him but he can't see her face beneath the brim of her hat. He considers the looks they've gotten since arriving in this odd place; women have stared at Alice's hat and men have sniffed rather dismissively at Tarrant.

"People can tell we're... I'm different," he says over the clatter of the wheels against uncommonly clear paving stones. "They stare."

Alice sighs. "I know. It's your hair. I wasn't sure when we'd arrive or what the fashions would be. Your suit and my dress are plain enough to be taken as traveling clothes, but, apparently, long hair is not the fashion here for men."

"I could cut it," he muses. "Overdue, really." Since the White Queen had returned to the throne, in all honesty.

Alice's hand tightens over his. "That's not necessary. We won't be here long."

He frowns. "But if we're judged harshly because of _my _appearance..."

"It doesn't matter, Tarrant. The fact that you're a bit... out of current fashion might actually go a long way toward explaining why your wife is so opinionated and fancies herself a businesswoman."

"I... what?"

Alice sighs. "Women in this world do _not_..." She searches for her next words. "Do not _meddle _in what is thought of as _men's _business. The trading business, I mean. Imports and exports. If I'm going to bully my way into it again, having you with me might make things a bit easier."

"I don't see how..."

Her tone is a bit sad when she explains, "Most likely, my male colleagues are going to look at you, take note of how unconventional you are and blame _you _for my unseemly brashness and very unladylike character. They'll say, 'Well, with a husband like _that _looking after her, what can one expect?' And then, hopefully, they'll tolerate me a bit more than they..." She huffs out a breath. "It'll be fine," she says, abruptly closing the topic.

Tarrant pries it back open. "Tolerate you more than... what?"

He feels Alice draw in a deep breath and let it back out, _slowly_. "Than before. When I was an apprentice. And an unattached female without a father to rein me in."

"Rein you in?" He blinks. "You are not a horse, Alice. And even then, I've met a fair share who took exception to the practice!"

Alice snorts with laughter that sounds more like a sob than actual humor. "Well, the horses – and the women – don't have the ability to complain about it here."

"But... that would mean that men command all aspects of life here and, correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't you once tell me that this Upland London has a queen?"

"It does. Queen Victoria. But you're still right; women have very few rights in this world. Especially those of my family's station. The higher one's position in society, the more strict and suffocating the rules and restrictions." She leans her shoulder into his and confides, "I'd much rather be a hatter's wife in London than a lord's. At least then I might be able to keep a shop or wear trousers in the market or even listen to a joke from a stranger on the street."

"That sounds utterly..."

"Untouchable?" she prompts. "Isolated? Enslaved?"

He leans his cheek against the cap of her hat and lets out a long, deep breath. "I'm so very sorry, my Alice."

"Whatever for?"

Closing his eyes, he tells her, "I admit, all these years with you, I've feared you might one day leave and return to the place where you were born. I didn't understand. You'd never _abandoned_ this place... you'd _escaped._ And... I'm sorry."

She pets the hand still held in her grasp. "No, I'm sorry. I've given you the wrong impression. Women from wealthy families can and do lead rewarding lives as mothers and wives. Still, to my knowledge, my mother has never cooked a meal for her family or sewn a dress for her children or even repaired a pair of stockings. All of those things that _matter _when you have a family to look after are done by cooks and tailors. There are housekeepers to clean up your messes and a butler to answer the front door and some say that's the way a life of leisure ought to be..."

"It's a cage," Tarrant concludes.

"I've often thought so, yes."

Tarrant shifts and passes his gloved thumb over the back of her gloved hand, over and over again. Although the carriage ride to the Mansion House Station site is not silent – not with the grimy, bustling city thrashing-nearly-bursting just beyond the carriage windows! – not another word is spoken.

The site itself, they find, is closed to curious passersby, but Alice manages to charm a young man selling newspapers on the corner into recounting the demolition.

"An' a great big hole there was!" he says with energetic gesticulation, preening at the sounds of amazement and awe Alice murmurs. "Cover'd i'tup quick-like, though."

"Did they fill it in?"

"Wouldn'know, yer ladyship, but I don'think they did..."

Tarrant watches as Alice overpays for a newspaper and then he escorts her back to the cab. "I wish I could see it with my own eyes," she grumbles. "But that would mean coming back after nightfall and sneaking in and..."

He reaches for her hand. "Alice," he pleads. "Don't frighten me with thoughts of you... _you both!..._ going back there through these streets, in the dark, near such a hole..."

"I won't," she hurriedly assures him. "I didn't mean I was thinking of doing it. It's just... How do I know _that's _the hole that Oshtyer fell through? How can I continue to advise the queen on all of this if I can't even confirm _that?_ True, I sent her a report last night but, what if I'm wrong?"

Tarrant doesn't have an answer for her.

She sighs.

He struggles for something _helpful_ to say. "Is there another recent hole in London that might be the hole in question?"

"Doubtful."

"Then, despite the lack of confirmation, we should proceed with your plan, which I have a very good feeling about, I don't mind telling you. After all, there's the next demolition in a fortnight's time to consider."

Alice nods, takes a deep breath, and sighs heavily. "Well, as I still haven't come up with any better ideas for dealing with this, I suppose now would be a good time to pay a visit to the company."

"Your father's company?" he confirms, although he's sure that's the one she's talking about.

"Yes. I hope Lord Ascot is still heading it." He can hear but cannot see her wistful smile due to the brim of the hat and the veil that conceal her expressions from him. "He believed in me like no one else. Not since my father passed."

Tarrant curls his fingers around her hand. "I'm very much looking forward to meeting him."

Alice lifts his hand and he can feel her lips press against his wrist. Before he can brush his fingertips against her veiled cheek or touch his own lips to the top of her hat, Alice stands in the carriage, raps her knuckles against the roof and shouts a new destination up to the driver.

_Kensington, East Venture Trading Company_

Tarrant suppresses a shiver.

He can't help but wonder what sort of place _this _will be. Oh, he's seen many a shop, workshop, and stall in Underland, but _here _they have things called _companies_ and _factories_ and _institutions...!_ In fact, Tarrant is feeling far too overwhelmed to be of much use as a protector at all. He swallows back a hard knot of uselessness and desperation, wincing as it settles in his gut. Oh, how he wishes the queen had sent more than a quick note through the looking glass last night in reply to Alice's report:

_I will inquire to the Masters as to how much time they will require to secure Underland. Please continue with the plans you've outlined. You have my full support, such as it is at this distance. I cannot thank you enough for embarking upon this undertaking, Alice. Please give Tarrant our regards._

He frowns, considering the queen's letter. It had been so short. Brief. And, in that regard, very strange. Tarrant suspects that something else has occurred in Underland since their departure, but he doesn't mention it. Alice has far too much to worry about now and, besides, the queen's next letter might very well explain the source behind Tarrant's unease.

"Tell me about the company," Tarrant suddenly requests, startled to realize he'd never asked Alice about it and, under the circumstances, it might be quite advantageous to both know precisely what she'd done there _and_ have a rough understanding of the general operations of the business.

Next to him, Alice relaxes a bit – ah, so she's nervous, too! But of course she is! She'll be revealing herself to those who've thought her dead for nearly two years! – and he can hear the note of relief in her voice. He can't comprehend the scale of the business, for that he'd have to know what this _China _and _India_ and such things are and he doesn't – but he's happy to finally be of _some _service to his Alice, even if that means simply distracting her from the coming meeting.

"This could all be for naught," she says suddenly. "Lord Ascot might be out of the office today, at the docks overseeing some shipment passing through the customs office. Or perhaps he's taken the day off. Maybe he's out visiting a potential investor or a client or he might even be aboard a ship and sailing off to Hong Kong and—!"

"Alice," Tarrant says softly, sliding his arm over her shoulders and pulling her into an embrace.

"Thank you."

The brim of her had is crushed between them, but she doesn't let go of him. And he'll be damned if he'll be the one to release her first! They rock and sway with the carriage and every time the vehicle begins to slow, Tarrant clutches Alice all the tighter, wondering if this is it: the end of their journey.

The end.

Tarrant doesn't like the sound of That at all! But, in a way, it _is _an end. It must be. It feels as if it is. It feels as if he's about to watch her disappear right in front of his eyes again. In a way, perhaps she will; this world – this Upland London – has not been able to lay claim to Alice since she'd returned to Underland, since she'd bid her mother good-bye and had chosen _him_. Despite his niggling worries over their future, she has been Underland's Alice for seven wonderful years.

After today, that won't be the case anymore.

After today, her family and her former colleagues will know she's alive. They will have Expectations and Questions and, possibly, Demands and _what will he do if those things __**take her away from Underland? FROM HIM?**_

_Nauw, d'nae be actin' like a fumptwat, lad! Ye'll stay wi'her an' yer littlin', o'course!_

Yes, yes, of course he will. He'd do anything, go anywhere, be anyone for his Alice and their littlin'. And if she needs him to become a _London_ hatter, he will!

Both the Resolution and Alice's warmth calm him. He focuses on the heart line, feels her own simmering anxiety and, gathering his strength, sends her his support and a whisper of confidence. (He wishes he had more of the latter to spare, but he simply doesn't. What little there is comes from the knowledge that he will be _with _her no matter where they are or whatever happens.)

"Hatter?" she asks as the cab begins to slow again.

"Yes, my Alice?"

"Why _is _a raven like a writing desk?"

He smiles through the pain in his chest; dear Fates of Underland, but he loves her so much it hurts sometimes! "Because they're together, my Alice," he whispers back.

Alice takes a deep breath and when she speaks, he hears Muchness: "Yes, we are."

And it's excellent timing because the carriage does not pick up speed again. This time it pulls over to the curb and rolls to a jerking halt.

They alight. Alice pays. And then she slides her hand through his arm and they turn toward the elegant office front. Tarrant reads:

_****_

East Venture Trading Company

_**Est. 1838 – Townsend Ascot, Esq.**_

  
Beside him, Alice lets out a breath. "He's still chairing the company," she murmurs. "Thank whatever Powers that be. Any other man would laugh us out of the office."

Tarrant feels a gentle nudge against his arm from Alice and takes that as the signal to move. They cross the walkway and Tarrant opens the door for her. He's unable to break the connection between them completely and finds himself brushing his gloved fingers against the small of her back. But then they're within a very comfortable – if utterly boring – lobby.

"May I assist you with something, sir? Madam?"

"Yes," Alice says, striding forward. "Lord and Lady Hightopp," she continues in an imperious tone Tarrant doesn't think he's ever heard from her before. Not even when she's had to deal with that thrice-damned, lickspittle Irondirk! "We have business we'd like to discuss with Lord Ascot, if he's available."

"May I inquire as to the nature of that business, Lady Hightopp?" the clerk asks in a neutral yet courteous tone.

"It concerns a former apprentice of East Venture Trading. A young woman by the name of Miss Alice Kingsleigh."

If the clerk finds that to be an odd statement of purpose, he shows no sign of it. He gestures to the sitting area. "I'll be but a moment. Please make yourselves comfortable."

Tarrant finds it an admirable suggestion despite the fact that he cannot _possibly _comply with it. He presses his hand against Alice's lower back again, unable to go a moment more without some sort of physical connection to remind him that everything is fine, despite the unsettling thrumming along his heart line. _Their_ heart lines. Which means the sensation is actually originating from...

"Alice," he whispers in the plush room. Against the wall, a magnificent clock measures the seconds with lifeless ticks and droll tocks. Time here is, apparently, utterly regular and predictable. A machine. The thought disturbs him.

"I'm sorry. I'm nervous," she replies equally softly.

"I _know_." He smiles and hears her quiet huff of laughter.

She turns away to study various items spaced throughout the room. Pointing she says, "That is a teapot from China."

Tarrant follows her gesture and regards the thing. "Too small," he comments. "How is one to accommodate more than one guest with something that size? Unless each guest is given their own personal tea pot?" For a moment, he's thrilled by the Idea.

Alice chuckles. "I _know_," she replies to his unvoiced enthusiasm. "Quite the idea, isn't it?"

"Indeed it is!"

"And this is from India."

"It looks very much like our mutual friend's scimitar, doesn't it?" he muses, studying the jewel-encrusted brass sheath.

"Perhaps more ornamental than functional, however," she allows.

"Quite right! However would one hope to duck and dodge with that thing clanking and clattering against one's leg?"

Tarrant feels Alice place a hand on his upper arm and just as she moves to direct his attention to yet another item, the clerk returns and clears his throat.

"If you'll wait but a few moments, Lord Ascot will be with you shortly."

"Thank you," Alice replies and Tarrant feels her fingers relax against his arm: her fear that her former employer would be unavailable today is quashed soundly.

Alice moves toward an odd sphere in the room and Tarrant wonders at what dastardly sort of person would have dared to scribble over a perfectly good object... whatever it's purpose might be. Alice motions him closer.

"Here," she says in a low tone, "is a map – a _globe_ – of the known world Up Here. And this small spot – do you see it? Within this larger shape?"

"Yes," he murmurs back, squinting at the unfortunately abused sphere. (_Globe!_ he reminds himself.) He realizes the scribbles are in fact writing... names of... _places _just as Alice informs him:

"This is London. Where we are. And this shape –" Her fingertip circles the yellow area. "– is England. The country ruled by Queen Victoria. Here is Europe. And when I sailed to China, we took the ship around this way on the Atlantic Ocean, down past..."

Tarrant gapes at her as she illustrates her journey. He can't quite get past the first two sentences: _This is London. Where we are._

"Alice?" he whispers, chokes, coughs. "_This _tiny, miniscule, insignificant ink splatter... is _this _great city that I've yet to see the boundary of?"

"Yes," she replies. "The world Up Here is a very big place."

He intends to agree with her but only an odd sort of gurgle makes it up past his numb throat and useless mouth.

"Here is India," she tells him, gently rotating the spherical map in its masterfully carved wooden cradle and pointing to another yellow-colored mass of land. "And China. Halfway around the world. And it is goods from _these _places that this company deals in."

Although Tarrant appreciates the explanation of what sort of business a trading company does, he cannot _fathom_ the fact that Alice – _his Alice! _– has traveled to these places across not one but a half-dozen oceans that must be far greater than the Crimson Sea, the only sea he's ever known.

"Alice... I..."

"Lord and Lady Hightopp?"

Alice gives Tarrant's arm a gentle squeeze before turning back to the clerk. "Yes?"

"Lord Ascot will see you now. If you'll follow me?"

When the lad's back is turned, Tarrant gives himself a good shake. "I'm fine," he says in reply to Alice's patient gaze.

"Yes, you are," she agrees and despite her anxiety, Tarrant feels a warmth in his chest – a hug from Alice via the Heart Mark. He returns it, places his hand on the small of her back again and they follow the clerk down the hall in the direction of the offices, ready to face whatever awaits.

* * *

Notes:

1. I tried my best to find out precisely where a trading company office might be located in Victorian London but after nearly wearing out Google, I just settled for being vague. If anyone has a great resource site for Victorian London, including topographical maps and such, please let me know!

2. I have no idea what the name of Charles Kingsleigh's company had been called, so I made one up. Also, I have no idea what Lord Ascot's given name is. Just so you know; don't take those points as gospel, m'kay?

3. The "map" Alice shows Tarrant in the parlor of East Venture Trading (the abused, scribbled-upon sphere) is a _globe of the Earth_, m'kay? (Yes, they were used during this time period.) Tarrant hasn't seen a globe before because Underland isn't globe-shaped... really. I imagine it as an inverted globe or perhaps just a plain-ol' inside-of-a-globe... how does that work with there being a moon and sun and stars? Gah, I have NO idea. Maybe there's an extra-dimensional portal or something in the "sky"... I just write this stuff. I don't rationalize it! (P.S. Looks like all those StarTrek TNG marathons have paid off, eh? Extra-dimensional portal! Swe~et!)

* * *

[End of Chapter 8]


	94. Book 3, Ascots and Kingsleighs, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Nine: Ascots and Kingsleighs  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

The office looks _precisely _as she recalls. In fact, the moment she steps over the threshold, the scent and sight of it crashes into her, stopping her in her tracks with a wave of recollection so complete she despairs of bursting into tears on this very spot.

"Lord and Lady Hightopp, I presume?" a familiar – but unexpected! – voice drawls from the left.

Alice tears her gaze away from the map-lined walls and assortment of smartly-displayed brass nautical instruments and stares at the man sitting in Lord Townsend Ascot's Italian leather chair.

"_Hamish?_" And, without a doubt, it _is _him! That long, pale face and soft chin and red hair and blue eyes and... yes! _That _look! She knows that look. Condescending, superior, pompous, _lordly_—!

"Hamish Ascot, Esquire," he corrects her stiffly and somehow manages to look down his nose at the pair of them despite the fact that his bum is still firmly planted in that overpriced chair.

"Reginald indicated that you have information to share regarding the disappearance of Alice Kingsleigh." His gaze sweeps over them, taking in their well-made but hardly remarkable clothing then lingering first on her distinctive hat and then her husband's careworn and battle-ravaged one. "It is my regret to inform you that the reward for information regarding Miss Kingsleigh's whereabouts has been withdrawn."

He turns away and reaches for a bit of paperwork, clearly attempting to look far _too busy _to be bothered with them. "I'm terribly sorry you've come all this way for nothing," he continues, blithely. "Reginald will escort you out and hail you a cab."

Alice's right hand fists. Oh, what she wouldn't give to be within striking distance of him! "Hamish Ascot," she says, each syllable weighed carefully before it leaves her mouth. "Haven't you ever imagined what it would be like to fly?"

He pauses, frowns, looks up at them again. "I beg your..."

"Or what women would look like in trousers and men in dresses?" As she speaks, Alice reaches up and removes her hat. She can't stop the smirk of satisfaction stretching her lips and lifting her brows. In fact, she doesn't even _try._

"... pardon..." he breathes, openly gaping.

Alice refrains from speaking not because she's being generous and allowing him to pull himself together and apologize for his rudeness but because she's enjoying his flabbergasted astonishment far too much to end it.

"You're..." Words, apparently, have escaped him.

"In London," she finishes for him.

"_Alive_," he differs.

"Yes, I had noticed that."

He scowls. "Indeed." With sudden purpose, Hamish stands and begins to move around the desk toward them. "And just where on _Earth_ have you _been _for the last two years?"

Alice feels Tarrant's arm across her back. His right hand settles over her right hip, ready to pull or twist her away from Hamish's blustering indignation.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Alice informs him and she's relieved that, for now, she is still able to speak truthfully. Oh, she knows the lies and half-truths will come. They must. But for now...

"You're not—at—!" The man visibly gropes for the words with which his vastly overpriced and privileged education had supposedly equipped him. "No!" he shouts suddenly. "No, Alice Kingsleigh, I'm afraid you _must _find the liberty to say because I'll be damned by Lucifer himself if I let you just waltz your way back into this city without so much as a by-your-leave! Not after what _your __**disappearance**_ –" He sneers the word. "– has done to my father!"

Despite the tightening of Tarrant's fingers against her hip and her own rising indignation, Alice freezes. "Lord Ascot..." she chokes out around the fist crushing her heart. "What's happened to him?"

Hamish arcs a brow. "Oh, so _do _care after all? How kind of you to inquire!"

"Cease this infantile behavior at once!" she replies through her teeth.

"Infantile?" he echoes, his blue eyes narrowing. "Oh, I suppose it's _infantile_ of me to actually _expect _you to follow through with one _single _thing in your life?"

In the midst of drawing a breath to rebut, Alice stops, pauses, and glares. She realizes he is not talking about her un-completed apprenticeship. _This_ discussion has grown... personal.

_Of all the ridiculous...!_ It's been _years _since she'd refused his proposal! And she'd done him a _favor _in refusing! Why, he...! Alice is a heartbeat away from opening her mouth and accusing him of something far worse than infantile behavior when she Remembers:

_No, Alice, do __**not **__let him destroy your plans,_ she chastises herself. Alice closes her eyes and takes a deep, burning breath. When she opens them, her pride is a seething mass of indignation in her gut. "Hamish, I will apologize at length and at your convenience for... _that_, but will you _please _tell me what has become of your father?"

He relents marginally. With a sniff, he draws himself up to his full height and informs her, "Father suffered a non-fatal episode of apoplexy after learning of the loss of the ship, the crew... and you."

It's painfully obvious that Hamish despises the implication that his father had valued Alice so highly. She doesn't permit herself to dwell on that. "Has he... Is it possible for him to fully recover?"

"For the most part, he has. A smuch as he ever will, in any case. However, his constitution is much weaker than it had been. He stays at the country manor on the physician's recommendation."

With a sigh, Alice leans back against the arm still resting across her back. "I'm truly sorry, Hamish."

He lifts his non-existent chin. "Yes, well. It was quite some time ago."

It's the closest thing to an apology _this _son of a lord will ever give her for his unseemly outburst and irrational anger.

Only... Alice knows his anger _isn't _irrational: _I __**could have **__come back – or at least sent a letter! – and reassured everyone that I was alive._

Yes, she could have. But she hadn't.

_Think on it __**later**__, Alice! Focus now!_

She clears her throat and announces into the strained silence, "Lord Ascot, please allow me to introduce my husband, Tarrant Hightopp, Esquire."

The introductions are fully as awkward as possible. She can see that Tarrant has put all the puzzle pieces together – Hamish's bruised pride and resentment and the derisive, dismissive once-over he gives Tarrant – and has realized that Alice and Hamish have some considerable shared History. The smile Tarrant offers over their brusque handshake is one she's fairly certain he's Borrowed from the Bandersnatch.

_Brangergain i'tall_, she swears. As if she needs yet _another _thing to explain to him about her past!

The meeting becomes dominated by civility – _painful _civility. There are offers of comfortable chairs in the sitting area (which is not bisected by a massive mahogany desk). There are offers of tea and luncheon. Before Hamish can move on to tastefully inquire if they are in need of funds, Alice interjects.

"We've only just arrived and I'd be much obliged if you would consider explaining our arrival to my mother... if she's... that is..." The pained expression on her face is entirely sincere, if for a slightly different reason than the one she gives. "If she's still... in good health."

For the first time since their arrival, Hamish's expression reveals the briefest flicker of compassion. "Yes, she is well. She keeps in touch with my father and mother. Last I heard she was keeping herself busy organizing a charity for young, career-minded ladies, much to the consternation of several prominent figures in Society."

Alice squeezes her eyes shut and takes a calming breath. The thoughts – all sorts of thoughts – very nearly choke her: Why would her mother start such a charity? Had she changed? Is this the result of regret at not being more supportive of Alice's dreams? Is this her way of dealing with the grief?

_Oh, Alice! Why did you decide to let her believe you'd died? How could that have been the right decision?_

Tarrant's fingers brush against her elbow and she's reminded of **why** she'd done what she had, but still...

_**Later, Alice!**_

"I wouldn't want to... shock her with our arrival," Alice whispers roughly. "I realize it's an inconvenience, but would you mind terribly explaining the situation to her?"

Hamish considers her request, petulance dripping from his features. "Would that I actually _knew _what the situation is."

"It's not a tale I particularly relish in telling," she says flatly, already exhausted by the weight of her own guilt. "If you must know, then you're welcome to stay and hear it when I tell my mother."

And, with that bargain struck, Hamish agrees to accompany them to Helen Kingsleigh's residence. He leaves to request the carriage be readied and brought around, and in those moments – alone in Lord Ascot's office – Tarrant turns to her and studies her carefully. He doesn't ask her about the past. He doesn't even ask her what she's going to say in explanation to her mother. He withdraws his handkerchief – bright blue! – from his pocket to dab under her teary eyes.

"Later," he assures her. "Tell me later."

"I will."

After the briefest hesitation, he continues, "And, in the meantime, Alice, could you please remember one thing?"

She tilts her head to the side in inquiry.

_Underland needs you_, she imagines he says.

_**I **__need you,_ she reads in his green eyes.

_**Our littlin'**__ needs you,_ his fingertips express where they rest against her side and his thumb brushes just within the curve of her hipbone.

"Us," he finally whispers and, somehow, all of those things are encapsulated in that single word.

"I haven't forgotten," she whispers back on a smile.

And when the heart line warms and throbs once along her skin, she knows that he believes her.

Alice shamelessly accepts the strength in the gesture and uses it to comport herself (as a woman of her station ought) from the office to the carriage. The horse's shod hooves clatter and the coach sways through the bustling midday streets. She forces herself not to think about how _very much _she'd like to be sitting beside Tarrant at the moment. (How odd that she'd been the one to throw convention out the window in order to comfort him but now, when it's _she _who craves his presence, she does not dare invite him to take the empty seat beside her!) In fact, she's relatively sure that with the merest twinge along the heart line, Tarrant would climb over Hamish, who is stiffly seated beside him, and take his usual place at her side!

The image amuses her, bouys her, and she is able to endure the isolation. She focuses on the gentle brush of his knees and shins against her skirt.

The journey lasts for an eternal afternoon, and yet is over with startling brevity. As the carriage rolls to a gentle stop, Hamish leans toward the door. "Wait a few minutes before you come in. I shall make sure your mother hears the news gently and comfortably."

"Thank you, Hamish." And, for that consideration, for that evidence of the fact that there _does _exist a gentleman beneath the spoilt disposition of a rich man's son, she might have embraced him.

The instant Hamish steps out of the carriage, Alice moves from her bench seat and settles next to her husband. His arm has already been lifted and outstretched; Tarrant is waiting for her when she seats herself beside him. The house they'd arrived within only yesterday afternoon stares at them through the carriage window, through the nearly-drawn curtains, and Alice shivers.

"I never thought I'd be here again. Like this. I thought..." _I thought this life was over,_ she doesn't say. She'd said her good-byes, she'd closed the mirror to this world. In the last seven years, _of course _she'd wanted to check on her family, but she hadn't. Really, what could she have done for them if they'd needed her? She'd sworn herself to Underland, to the White Queen, to Tarrant, to their future. And she'd quickly realized that it would not have been fair to live half her life in one world and half in the other. Alice had not _known _how to divide herself between two lives, two Alices.

Oh, she'd hidden behind reason after reason, both valid and invalid: her mother never would have approved of Alice's lifestyle or Tarrant; she wouldn't have believed in Underland and her daughter's place in it; Alice would only have been delaying the inevitable break between them; it had been better to leave her mother with the impression that she'd died on some glorious adventure rather than force the woman to wonder where her daughter was and if she was safe... The list goes on. And on.

And now, here she is: moments away from a reunion with her mother and, undoubtedly soon thereafter, her sister and now all of the fears and reasons and doubts that have kept Alice so firmly entrenched in Underland will be churned up and if she's not ready to swim through them, she may just drown.

"Alice," Tarrant whispers and his breath causes the veil to flutter against her face.

She swallows. "This is harder than suffering through that damned wedding proposal."

"Proposal?"

Oh, brangergain i'tall, _why _had she just said that? Irritated with herself, she explains, "Just before Nivens found me and brought me back to slay the Jabberwocky, Hamish proposed."

Given the sudden, icy sensation emanating from her Heart Mark, Alice reflects that perhaps _now _hadn't been the best of times to mention that bit of ancient history.

"I turned him down," she hurriedly says. "I told him he wasn't the right man for me."

"Di'ye?" Tarrant rumbles.

Alice reaches up and presses a hand to his cheek, turning his face toward hers. With a frustrated huff, she pushes her hat back. "Yes, at the time, I'd already had a certain Outlander in mind."

And his eyes – sparking with orange temper – fade back into green.

"That was –" he begins.

"– a rhyme," she finishes with a wry grin.

Unfortunately, she doesn't earn a delighted giggle for her efforts. "I'm sorry, Alice. I shouldn't be... that is, I'm supposed to be assisting _you..._"

"You are." She leans forward and kisses him gently, brushing his parted lips with her tongue and he reciprocates with a delicate, hot touch.

"What's going to happen now?" he murmurs.

Alice sighs and toys with his still-straight cravat. "A lot of tears, more explanations..."

"And... after we've done what we've come here – to this Upland London – to do?" he asks with obvious reluctance.

Alice frowns. "We'll go home, of course." Seeing the relief in his face, she scolds him, "Hatter, don't tell me you were worried that I'd _prefer _this to our life in Mamoreal?"

"Prefer? No, no, but I thought... you are a very duty-ous woman, Alice..."

"I am," she confirms. "And I choose us."

She'd almost like to feel angry with him over his lack of faith in her, but she knows that's not the issue at hand. Here sits a man who has _lost everything _that he has ever held dear. Everything and everyone... gone in the blink of an eye, in the span of a nightmare. Here sits a man she _had left behind _on the battlefield after he'd interceded on her behalf – distracted the Jabberwocky – and after he'd Futterwhackened and opened his heart and unveiled his soul and asked her to stay and had accepted her refusal and watched her disappear. Here sits a man for whom pain is not an occasional inconvenience, but a way of life. How can she allow herself to lose her temper over that?

He leans his forehead against hers on a sigh, their hats falling away. "Forgive me for worrying."

"Never," she replies with heat and kisses him again, forcefully this time.

His arms tighten around her and his mouth counters her. Her gloved hands bury themselves in his hair as he slants his head and his breath rushes over her cheek, hot and urgent and she wonders if she truly dares to defile the Ascot town carriage with an interlude with her husband, her wonderful, beautiful, giving, passionate husband...

He decides for them; gently, Tarrant pulls away.

"Mayhap we should go in?" he murmurs.

"Yes," she replies on a gusty sigh. "We should."

She holds still while he replaces her hat upon her head and then reaches for his own. They descend the carriage and once again find themselves crossing a very Significant stretch of sidewalk.

"Everything will be a'right," he whispers and if the front door hadn't opened at that precise moment, she very likely would have kissed him yet _again _for that.

"Lord Ascot said to expect you," Mr. Brown, the Kingsleigh's lifelong butler, intones as he steps back and allows them into the house.

"Your hat, sir? Madam?" the man continues, holding out his hand.

Tarrant glances down at it as if Brown's hand is encased in jabberwocky droppings and not pristine Egyptian cotton. And Tarrant mutters something that sounds suspiciously like "greizin'-guddler" to Alice's ears.

"We'll keep them for now, thank you," she manages through a – thankfully – veiled smile.

"Very well. If you'll follow me?"

Brown opens the door with a flourish and then, after they've moved within, closes it in a manner he no doubt believes to be unobtrusive. Both Alice and Tarrant look over their shoulders in the direction they'd come.

"You know him," Tarrant murmurs on a frown. "And yet he did not recognize your voice?"

"Perhaps if Mr. Brown were known for his imagination he might have made the connection," she replies quietly.

Tarrant sighs and Alice steps closer to him. He lifts his hands to her arms and gently rubs his thumbs back and forth over the drab fabric.

"I don't think I'm ready for this," she tells him.

"Neither am I," he admits. "But Underland needs us..."

And they don't have much time.

And this is the path they've chosen.

And it's too late to turn back now.

And everything is about to Change...

Alice holds still as Tarrant lifts his hands to her hat. With the flash of a small pair of silver scissors and a flurry of too-nimble fingertips, first the left side of the veil and then the right (along with the collection of draping ribbons) are lifted away. Alice watches him tuck the sheer fabric away in his pocket. His expression is tense. She fears her own is even more so...

The sound of the door slamming open startles them both. Looking over at the door, Alice sees her mother pushing her way into the parlor, her pale face drawn with hope and fear and worry and disbelief.

She has but a moment to reassure Tarrant, but he manages to surprise her.

He gently cups her elbow in his hand and, tightening his fingers, murmurs, "Together, Raven."

And then Helen Kingsleigh is there, her thin hands curling around Alice's arms, and she bursts into tears at the sight of her daughter.

"Alice!" she gasps between sobs.

Smiling, Alice returns the embrace despite the uncomfortable interference of her mother's stiff and layered dress. Alice closes her eyes and savors the scent of her mother's perfume.

"You're home!"

Alice blinks through her tears; now the untruths and evasions will begin, for – even though she should – Alice doesn't have the heart to correct her.

* * *

Notes:

1."Apoplexy" is the antiquated term for "a stroke." And although the source I consulted seemed to indicate that this was usually fatal (before the advent of modern medicine) I decided to whip out my Artistic License again! (^_~)

2. Alice's rationale for not keeping in touch with her mother, for not trying to divide herself between two worlds, is something I can relate to very intimately. I'm married to a Japanese man. I live in Japan. Every time I contact my family in the States, I have to perform a paradigm shift of sorts. It takes a lot out of a person... and there are no Jabberwockies to slay or queens to protect in _my _situation. In fact, I still twitch when I think of all the books I've abandoned in my mother's house. I'm very much the sort of person who devotes herself completely to whatever it is she decides to do and I think Alice (post-recovery-of-muchness) would be very similar in that regard.

* * *

[End of Chapter 9: Scene 1 of 2]


	95. Book 3, Ascots and Kingsleighs, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Nine: Ascots and Kingsleighs  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Tarrant cannot recall the last time he's seen Alice shed so many tears. There'd been their Argument not so very long ago – has it only been _three days_ since then? – and he recalls the moment at the Maigh, when she'd realized that one day they'll be kissing and embracing the parents of their son or daughter's new spouse... But those tears had been brief and the cousins that had attempted to follow them had been easily coaxed back into their hidey holes, wherever those might be. (Presumably somewhere on the other side of his Alice's beautiful eyes. He can only speculate!) But today, the tears slide and leak and drip and fall and Tarrant is very glad he'd thought to wrap the two vials of jabberwocky blood in yet _another _handkerchief or he might be caught in an awkward and kerchief-less position otherwise!

He watches as Alice sits on the sofa beside her sister and occasionally tickles her nephew (who is seated but wiggling with impatience on Margaret Manchester's lap). His bright blue handkerchief is an even darker – damper! – shade than it had been in the parlor (and it had begun dampening then!) and Tarrant allows himself a moment of Contentment despite Alice's continuing tears: even though he is not seated beside her – he has gotten the Distinct Impression that being in close proximity to one's wife in the presence of Others is not Done here – something of _his _is with her, being held onto in her gloved hand.

A bark of laughter draws Tarrant's attention to the sideboard where Lowell Manchester (Alice's brother-in-law) is indulging himself with more of that foul-smelling concoction. (Although, _really_, with a name like "Brandy" it's hard to imagine the liquor being any more pleasant than the frumious and similarly-named Bandersnatch!) Lowell and that enpuffed, boggletog-ish fumptwat _Hamish Ascot_ are apparently engrossed in a discussion of Tarrant's shortcomings. Well, more accurately, _Lowell_ is engrossed (if that cruel gleam in his eyes is any indication) and Hamish is manfully enduring the lecture provided by his inebriated conversation partner. And, for that very reason, Tarrant finds he cannot _loathe_ Alice's former Intended nearly as much as he'd like.

Tarrant allows his eyes to narrow, to simmer with hostility at the useless excuse for a member of the male gender (that is, at _Lowell!_) before he turns pointedly toward the bookcases lining the study, giving Alice as much time as she needs to be with her sister and mother.

_A Compendium of Surgery_, he reads then moves on to: _Anatomae, A Guide to Biological Systems, _and _Common Remedies for the Home_. He briefly toys with the idea of asking Alice if they might give the latter volume to the queen as a sort of souvenir. He's sure she'd be _most_ interested in Uplandish remedies...

"Lord Hightopp?"

Tarrant turns and inclines his head. The gesture allows him to hide his surprise at the fact that Alice's mother has crossed the room with the specific purpose of speaking to him! "Madam Kingsleigh," he lisps nervously. "You have a lovely home."

He almost winces at the triteness of the comment but Alice's mother seems pleased.

"Thank you, young man. The interiors are a bit out of style now," she comments factually, "as I've yet to bring myself to change anything since Charles – my husband – passed."

Tarrant's heart throbs at the Thought of living in a world though which Alice has... _passed._ Never to return. "Some say Change is unavoidable, but I rather enjoy avoiding Him as much as possible," he replies.

Mrs. Kingsleigh looks a bit startled by this, but her expression softens quickly. "If it wouldn't be too forward of me to make an observation, Lord Hightopp..."

"Tarrant, madam, please... If it pleases you."

Her pale lips, so often weighted at the corners with the long-term companionship of Grief, lift a bit. "Tarrant, you have the most charming way of speaking. Very odd, of course, but... something about you reminds me of my late husband."

Tarrant smiles. "Perhaps he might have also felt a bit like a sugar cube in the cream pitcher in this Up—ah, city of London?"

Her smile strengthens. "Yes, I think he often did. A fish out of water, we say."

He considers that. "A very dangerous position for a fish to be in."

"Quite," she agrees. "I much prefer your proverb."

"Thank you, madam."

"Helen," she insists. "Call me Helen, Tarrant."

"It would be my pleasure."

"I have an observation I wish to share with you, Tarrant," she continues abruptly. "And I would very much appreciate your honesty in return."

Rather than promise to comply, he nods for her to continue.

"Alice has always had an... _alarmingly_ active imagination, which has gotten her into a fair number of inexplicably odd circumstances in her youth. Unfortunately, when asked about those circumstances, she has never been very forthcoming with details."

Tarrant waits.

"What Alice spoke of... Your countrymen finding her and taking her back to your country, her role in assisting the rightful queen in returning to the throne... Although I do not doubt her... _sincerity_ despite the fantastical nature of such an adventure, I sense there is a great deal my daughter is not telling me."

Tarrant feels his brows arc upward with incredulity and his eyes dart toward Alice. Suddenly, he's _very_ nervous about where this conversation is leading. Oh, he'd never been more proud of Alice for bending and blending the truth together in such a way that could be believed and accepted by her family, but it's been _years _– since that moment of heart-shattering _panic!_ on his knees before the Bluddy Behg Hid! – since he's had to weave and twist words in such a way!

"I'm sorry, Helen, what is it you would like to know?" Best to confront this hat-on or he'll reveal too much! His tension and anxiety, when coupled with words and sentences and fleeting thoughts, has often landed him in Trouble's Territory, which is a decidedly Unpleasant place to be!

Bluntly, she asks, "Did my daughter participate in a war?"

And, seeing no way around _that _question, Tarrant replies, "Yes, she did."

"_How _could you – or anyone for that matter – have permitted that? Alice is no soldier!"

He almost giggles right in her face. Almost. "That's true, she isn't." No, she's a _Champion!_ "And, as for the why... well, I'm afraid things are quite different in our—er, in _my _land. There was a prophecy, you see..." _Oh, a rhyme!_ "And my countrymen are very... devoted to our prophecies. Alice's coming gave us all the hope and strength we needed to continue with the Resistance."

"And did you participate in the fighting, as well?"

"I did," he says, and feeling daring, continues, "And when others would have called upon Alice to take up arms, I stepped forward in her stead. Despite the prophecy, I could not in all conscience..."

He lets the sentence fall away. It's true, if horribly misleading.

"So, you see," he continues, "despite the circumstances, there is no need for you to worry over the past. Although, as her mother, I fully acknowledge that you have that Right."

Helen sighs. "Yes." Her tone is stiff but not with irritation and anger. Perhaps with other Strong emotions. "And I'm exceedingly good at it."

"I can see that! Our Alice does tend to uncover Trouble in the most unlikely of places, does she not?"

"She does. Which leads me to another issue I shall also require a frank answer to."

Again, Tarrant nods in acquiescence.

"Are you, in fact, fully capable of looking after my daughter? Have you the means to ensure her future is a happy and comfortable one, _Lord _Hightopp?"

The question is oddly unexpected. Of course, he should have anticipated this, for he would demand the same of any spouse he and his Alice's child would choose – _will choose!_ Might choose? Could choose. He feels his cordial expression slowly dim and he knows he cannot circumvent the Truth. Not to his wife's mother. Not about this.

"The title," he begins quietly. "Should not be mine. Would not be mine had my family not been killed by the Ja—um, in the war. Hightopp Village was destroyed and although the land has recovered, it is uninhabited. Through the grace of the queen, I have been permitted to begin rebuilding although I do not expect to enjoy prosperity there for... some time."

Helen frowns. "And how do you support my daughter if not through your lands?"

"I apprenticed in a trade, as a boy. Now I'm Hatter to the queen. Alice and I reside in the palace..." Tarrant stops, sighs. He feels his shoulders droop with defeat. "I know it's not much. I know that I don't _have _much to give Alice. Her ring even..."

"Yes," Helen says. "I _had _noticed. A bit of an unconventional design, isn't it?"

He nods. "It was fashioned from a hat pin my mother had made." Tarrant's eyes flicker briefly in the direction of his hat, which he'd sat upon a chair next to Alice's. "When I say I have _nothing_, Mrs. Kingsleigh, I speak the truth. As a reward for my loyalty and service during the war – and also for my hat-making services now – the queen provides for us."

She sighs. "It does not please me to hear this, Tarrant. I would much rather you were a man of your own means and wealth. However..." At this point, Alice's mother places her hand on Tarrant's arm, nearly startling him. "I trust my daughter to choose _well._ And I can see that she has."

Tarrant feels a smile wobble its way onto his lips. "I most wholeheartedly thank you, Mrs. Kingsleigh."

She gives his arm a firm squeeze and replies, "I believe I asked you to call me Helen."

"So you did. My apologies."

"And you will tell me if my daughter ever wants for anything?"

"I most assuredly shall," he agrees, happy to make this promise. "And, likewise, should she express a desire for anything at all to you, if you would encourage her to speak of it to me, I shall do all that I can to make it so."

"I believe you would."

Tarrant exchanges a relieved smile with her.

"Mother? What _are _you two whispering about?" Alice asks, as she crosses the room.

"You, of course," Tarrant replies at the exact same moment that her mother says, "An Alice of our mutual acquaintance."

Startled and charmed, he glances at Helen, who gives him a brief, humor-filled smile.

"Oh, botheration. Margaret decides to gossip at me for fifteen minutes and the two of you have already formed the Committee for the Regulation of Mad Alices."

"Oh, Alice, you are not mad," her mother huffs with fond exasperation.

"I must also object," Tarrant replies. "There's only one of me so there shall only be one Alice whom I intend to care for, be she wonderfully mad or regrettably sane."

Alice laughs. "Well, now that we've got that all sorted out..."

With a startled jerk of her chin, Helen regards the clock. "Oh, goodness. It's nearly time for dinner and the three of us aren't dressed yet... Hamish, dear, you're welcome to stay for dinner if you like," she offers from across the room.

"Thank you, Mrs. Kingsleigh, but I'm afraid I'll have to decline. I've a standing engagement at the country estate."

"Oh, very well, then. A safe journey to you and I hope to see you again soon," Helen says, moving toward him to give him a motherly pat on the shoulder.

Tarrant smiles at the gesture. He can see where Alice gets her warm nature from. Her curiosity and wondrous logic, however, he assumes are from her father.

"Alice," Hamish says upon bidding Margaret and Lowell farewell, "might I have a word?"

"Of course. I'll see you out."

Tarrant brushes his gloved fingertips across her spine as she passes in front of him. Yes, he _Knows _she's his wife, but still...

"I'm sure your things have been brought from the hotel by now if you'd like to get freshened up?" Helen says. "I'll show you upstairs to the guest room."

Tarrant nearly asks if Alice will be joining him there, but bites his tongue. Surely, that is not A Question to be asking the mother of one's wife! He climbs the stairs and pushes open the door Helen indicates and then sighs with relief at the sight of _both _the small truck _and_ Alice's valise sitting beside the door.

"Dinner is at seven. Alice will show you where everything is, but of course you can ring for Brown if you require assistance with dressing."

"Thank you," he replies and then – with the soft sound of the door settling back into its frame – he's alone.

Tarrant glances around the boringly comfortable room before choosing the best place to rest their hats (which he'd brought up from downstairs) for the evening and then sits down on the edge of the bed. But then, noticing that the windows of the room overlook the street, Tarrant stands and strides over to one. He pulls back the curtain and looks down but can see neither his wife nor that Hamish fellow from this angle. The carriage is waiting, though – the one they'd taken from the trading company earlier in the day – so he knows the creature hasn't left yet.

And then, just as he thinks the thought, Hamish trots down the steps – alone! – and swings himself into the carriage.

Tarrant lets out the breath he'd been holding.

No, he hadn't expected or thought or even _dreaded_ that Alice would go somewhere without him – or go somewhere with _that _fellow. In fact, he's not sure why he'd been so tense and now so relieved.

_But... then again, yer mad, aren'ye, lad? A bit o' oddness is teh b'expected!_

He imagines so.

Tarrant turns as the door opens and Alice enters. "What did he want?" Tarrant hears himself grumble.

"To ask if we're free to visit his parents tomorrow for afternoon tea. I hope you don't mind that I accepted. I really do need to speak with Lord Ascot..."

"It's fine."

Alice smiles. "Thank you."

He approaches her and brushes a kiss against her cheek. "For what?" he asks in her ear.

"Many things," she replies, teasing him with the memory of that interlude in Mamoreal, of the request for a hat, of the passion that had followed it. "But, at the moment, I'm thanking you for charming my mother."

He leans back and regards her with surprise. "You didn't think I could?"

"No, I was certain she wouldn't permit you to, but she did and she likes you and everything's fine."

The sparkly sensation of Prideful Accomplishment twinkles under his skin and on his fingertips before the Future revisits him with a mournful _crash!_ "Aye, e'rythin's fine 'til ye're ready teh leave... an' then wha'will yer mam do?"

Alice lays her cheek against his shoulder and sighs. "She already knows we can't stay."

Arms wrapped around his wife, Tarrant inquires, "An' jus' how d'she know _tha'?_"

"I introduced you as _Lord _Tarrant Hightopp. Lords have responsibilities to their sovereigns and lands and – in some cases – companies and investors. She knows you can't stay here."

"B'tha' d'snae mean she won' ask _ye _teh—"

"No," Alice tells him. Firmly. "She would never ask me to leave the man I love, so put it out of your mind."

He presses a kiss to her tousled curls and endeavors to comply with her directions.

After a moment more of soaking up the warmth and security of the embrace, Alice takes a deep breath and reaches for her valise. "I should check to see if Mirana has contacted us."

Tarrant turns toward their trunk and begins searching for a fluffier and more elaborate cravat to wear to dinner. As he only has the one suit, he resigns himself to enduring it for the rest of the evening.

Just as he stands, cravat in hand, and turns, Alice's gasp echoes in the room.

"What's happened?" And in an instant, he's there, sitting on the bed beside her with his knee pressing against hers and the unmistakable roll of Sheafment parchment between them. She holds it out to him and he reads:

_My dearest Champions,_

_I'm afraid I have some worrisome news. The first is that nothing helpful shall be forthcoming from Oshtyer; he passed yesterday without ever regaining consciousness. I am sorry this resource, however dubious, has been lost to you._

_Also, I have spoken with the Masters and they have been unable to predict when Underland will be safe from these disturbances you've reported. Perhaps a fortnight will be sufficient, perhaps not. The only way we will know for certain is if the Oraculum once again permits itself to be opened to reveal future predictions._

_This leaves me in a quandary. I'm sure you know that once a pair of looking glasses, one in each world have been connected, Time matches Time. With our correspondence mirrors open, Underland will only have a fortnight to prepare for the next attack. I fear Underland will need more time to protect itself from this threat, which would mean closing the mirror and hoping we might use several days and nights together to stretch Time. I do __**not **__wish to close this mirror, for if I do all correspondence must necessarily stop. You will still be able to return to Underland using the blood of the Jabberwocky, however, so you will not be abandoned completely._

_Before you make a decision with regards to this, I must also mention one other issue which pertains to Maevyn. As you know, the little one is ill and has felt so for some time. Maevyn's illness became more pronounced following the earth-quaking and Krystoval believes the cause has made itself apparent: the moment you arrived in Upland, Alice, Krystoval also began to feel very unpleasantly. We believe this is due to the fact that, as guardians of the earth, jabberwockies are very sensitive to the land in which they reside, and as you, Alice, have ingested Krystoval's blood before and are now walking about in a world where the land is ill-treated and ill-cared for Krystoval is affected. Krystoval, as a mature jabberwocky and as a recent sufferer of this affliction, can function sufficiently well despite the discomfort. However, we fear that Maevyn, exposed for so long through Valereth and Oshtyer's presence in Upland, will weaken further if Valereth is not found and returned to Underland as soon as possible._

_I am sorry for such somber news, my Champions. I wish there were more Time to consider our options, but I fear a decision must be made soon. The mirrors must be closed as quickly as possible. I know it is too soon to hope that you have discovered a solution or implemented a plan to stop future attacks from occurring. It saddens me greatly to think that Krystoval and I will have to ask you to remain Up There, alone, so I will __**not**__ ask. Alice, I release you from this task. Should you decide to be on this side of the looking glass when it is closed tonight, please know that I will welcome both of you home. Both of you have served me with loyalty and passion that surpasses all expectations and I will not ask this unforgivably difficult thing of you. Come home and we shall prepare Underland for the next assault as best we can. It will be enough. I have faith in that. Please do not feel bound to do this; we will protect Underland first and, after that, we will open the mirrors and seek out Valereth for Maevyn's sake._

_Please send your replies as soon as you can._

_Your devoted queen and friend,_

_Mirana_

Tarrant leans against Alice, numb.

"What are we going to do?" she asks quietly.

Tarrant closes his eyes at the sound of the Strength in her voice. Her Champion's voice.

"The Masters need time. Maevyn needs to be cured..."

He nods, rubs his cheek against her hair.

"If we return, it still might not be enough time. Maevyn might weaken and die..."

Yes, he knows. He's already experienced those thoughts himself.

"But if we stay..."

Yes, if they stay, they are _trapped, imprisoned, confined, isolated, alone!_ If they stay, they will not be able to use the Jabberwocky's blood to return. They will have to wait until the queen can open the mirror again. And there is no way to know when that will happen.

Yes, he's frightened. So, very, very frightened.

But he thinks of Underland, Mamoreal, the queen and her little ones, his and Alice's _life_ together, their child's _future_...

This is the hardest decision he's ever... no, _he and Alice_ have ever had to make. The greatest risk they've ever taken. There are no guarantees, no vanishing Cheshire Cats to hoodwink the enemy, no mystical swords with which to slay the beast. If they _stay..._ No, Tarrant cannot even _Think _of the horrors that might befall his Alice and their littlin' here. But if they _leave..._ What guarantee do they have that Underland will survive the next demolition? And the one after that? And the one after that?

The world is crumbling around them when only a few weeks ago it had be bright and blossoming with Promise.

"Alice," he whispers. "I love you."

Her fingers, resting against his forearm which is draped across her belly, curl tighter. "And I love you. More than _anything._"

Tarrant squeezes his eyes even more tightly closed to stop the tears, for he knows she means it. She _Means _it. And if he were to ask her to go back to Underland _right now_, she would. She would do that. And not because he'd asked her to, but because she _loves him more than __**anything!**_

They're the hardest words he's ever spoken and even as he speaks them he can't believe his own ears:

"We'll stay."

* * *

Notes:

1. OK, so returning to the point I brought up in Note Number 8 of the massively detailed Chapter Seven Notes: why did three years pass in _both _Upland _and_ Underland while Alice was off doing business stuff? Well, because the White Queen kept a mirror open and watched Alice nearly every day. When the worlds are connected by a mirror (in my Alice universe) Upland Time and Underland Time merge and become One, so three years in Underland had equaled about three years in Upland. (Also, this would have been a good idea with regards to the Hatter. If Alice had spent three years Above, ten or more years **might** have passed in Underland and I'd hate to think what sort of shape Tarrant would have been in then!)

* * *

[End of Chapter 9]


	96. Book 3, An Apprentice Again, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Ten: An Apprentice Again  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

It's hard to believe the energetic, robust man who had instructed her in the art of negotiation, taught her how to hold her own in a card game of considerably high stakes, and had showed her how to operate both a revolver and a pistol is now limited to a wheelchair. Her heart breaks at the half-man he appears to be: the left side of his face is slack and his left shoulder slumped. His left arm is curled up in his lap, his hand loosely fisted, useless. Alice hadn't seen the ruins of the Shuchish royal city, hadn't walked through the debris of Palace Avenfaire... and yet she can't quite imagine how the sight of that destruction could be more powerful – could bring her more completely to her metaphorical knees – than the man who sits before her now.

She takes note of his high spirits, however, as Lady Ascot sternly reminds him to stay put and not strain himself during their visit. "Helen and I will be across the hall. Just ring if you need anything." He agrees easily enough and then the study door closes behind Alice's mother and Lady Ascot, leaving her and Tarrant alone with her former employer, a man who is – by the sheer force of his will alone – _unbroken_ despite the ravages that had been wrought upon his body.

"Alice! My dearest apprentice! How wonderful it is to see you again!"

Smiling, Alice leans down and gives Lord Townsend Ascot a kiss on his whiskery cheek. "And how wonderful it is to see you, again, sir."

Alice leans back but keeps her hand on his arm as she's unable to give him a brief embrace while he's seated in that horrid chair. He smiles broadly up at her, his eyes twinkling.

"And you're looking quite beamish today," she informs him, belatedly realizing she'd used Outlandish.

He laughs. "Beamish? Well, why wouldn't I be?" he replies. "It's not every day I find a misplaced apprentice and have the pleasure of meeting her husband!"

At the prompt, Alice steps back and reaches for Tarrant. He moves closer, his hat held before him. "This is my husband," she says, enjoying the thrill she gets from saying the words. As everyone in Underland knows precisely who _he_ is and precisely who _she _is, introductions are a rare event, indeed! "Tarrant Hightopp, Esquire."

"Hightopp," Townsend muses as he shakes Tarrant's offered hand. "What a remarkable name. It suits the man."

"Thank you, sir. I endeavor to do it justice." Tarrant hesitates for a moment, his green eyes shifting toward Alice. She nods in response to the look and the pulse of mild inquiry that vibrates from her Heart Mark. Yes, Tarrant can be himself with this delightfully open-minded man.

He continues, "And if I might be permitted to boldly say, sir, a name such as your own, which illustrates a fascinating fabrication of fabric, would be most Welcome, indeed, in our country."

Townsend chuckles warmly. "I don't believe the name Ascot has ever received observational insight to equal yours, Lord Hightopp."

Tarrant grins mischievously. "Thank you, sir."

"And this country you speak of intrigues me. Alice, my dear, as Hamish was frustratingly brief on the subject, I shall expect a full description from you. What sorts of commodities is it best suited for?"

Alice holds up a hand. "None of that, sir. I'm afraid we won't be discussing trade opportunities today. We must keep the best interests of such a modest nation in mind... and I haven't forgotten who taught me how to produce a credible bluff at the card table." She winks despite the alarming thought of Lord Ascot approaching Mirana over a trade agreement. Dear Fate, but the man would eat her alive in a business negotiation!

He laughs. "Well, I suppose that must be the reason behind East Venture's solid performance of late."

"Without a doubt, sir. I was taught by a master."

He sighs, his eyes twinkling with the dancing light of humor. "Well, if business opportunities with your mysterious nation must be crossed off of the agenda, then perhaps you'll consent to a discussion of a more personal nature." He waves them toward the nearby wingback chairs, between which rests a very accommodating tea service. Tarrant helps himself.

Alice nods, "If I can, I would be most happy to satisfy your curiosity."

"Curiosity!" he blusters with mock outrage. "Whoever heard of such a word!"

"Inquisitiveness?" she counters, falling into their old game.

"My dear! That's hardly any better! I'll have you know businessmen of _my _caliber do not entertain such fanciful faults."

Tarrant giggles softly, no doubt at the sudden appearance of words that noticeably begin with the letter F...

"Forgive me," Alice continues, sending a twinge of humor out to her husband. "For I fear I've forgotten myself."

"For shame," Tarrant mutters behind his cup.

"Foolhardy," she agrees.

Townsend Ascot laughs. "Oh, my dear. I must congratulate you; you have indeed found the one for you."

"Fortunately, yes. Thank you, sir." She smiles at Tarrant before turning her attention back to her father's former business associate.

He sips his tea and a contemplative light enters his eyes. "Returning to the subject at hand, Alice, why-ever _did _it take so long for you to find your way back home?"

Alice resists heaving a sigh. She knows what he really wants to ask: _Why didn't you write us ages ago, young lady?_ "Did Hamish mention the civil unrest that was occurring at the time of my rescue?"

"He did, indeed. And something about a prophecy?"

Alice nods. "As you know far better than most, not all of the world is as ordered and logical as England. In many places, mysticism still commands the hearts and minds of the people that live under its spell. Tarrant's homeland is one such place. I could not return before now for two reasons: first, I was needed; and, second, I could not in all good conscience abandon the people who had saved my life."

Lord Ascot digests this for a long moment. "But Alice... two years and not a single word from you during all that time...?"

She winces. "This country I cannot speak of is unknown to the world and I was asked to keep its location a secret. How could I write when I knew a letter would..." Alice pauses, thinks furiously, struggles to explain. "If you'd received a letter from someone claiming to be me, claiming to be alive, would you have been satisfied with that?"

"No, I can't imagine I would have been."

"You would have sent someone to search for me. But I'd made a promise, sir. They'd saved my life at sea. The least I could do is keep their secret. I _had_ to wait until I was able to make the journey in person. I'm just so sorry it's taken so very long."

In the moment of silence that follows, the warmth of Tarrant's approval and pride settles over her heart. She reaches for her own cup of tea to have an excuse to meet his very impressed gaze and let him coax a smile out of her.

Townsend sighs. "Yes, I had rather thought it would be something like that. I imagine transport would have been rather the gamble to take during a civil war."

Alice inclines her head, neither agreeing nor disagreeing.

"But you're here now and that's all that matters!"

Her tentative smile widens.

He lifts his cup and murmurs in a significant tone: "And, dare I hope you might be willing to once again take up the mantle of your apprenticeship?"

Alice's smile freezes. "My apprenticeship?"

A tendril of worry whispers within her chest before Tarrant manages to recall it.

"Yes, dear Alice. I can't tell you what it would mean to me to know you're with the company again. I need someone of _sound imagination_ and _vivid judgment_ at the helm. Hamish is a wonder with accounts and negotiations, but _you_, my dear, have a gift for inspiring others. A very useful skill I've yet to find a way to incorporate into the company training programme, I'm afraid."

Alice clears her throat. "A most flattering and intriguing offer, sir," she begins and is startled by Tarrant's momentary panic and then forceful resignation. Oh, he'd expected something like this, had he? Well, then...

Alice sets the record straight, "I'm afraid this is only a temporary visit. We have obligations awaiting our return."

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Tarrant's shoulders relax and his hand lower his teacup to his thigh.

Townsend doesn't look terribly surprised by the news. "Yes, I understand. I can't say your refusal wasn't expected, but I had hoped there might have been a bit of the old sparkle in your eyes when I made the offer."

Alice briefly debates her next words before deciding their interests will be best served by being forthright with her former mentor. "Well, if it's sparkle you're looking for, a rather odd circumstance has caught my eye."

"Oh?" he asks, genuinely interested. "What might that be?"

"The recent use of dynamite in the city to excavate the new Underground line... to Mansion House Station?"

He scowls. "Fools, the lot of them. Only concerned with expediency and expense. Never mind the integrity of London proper! Why, one would think we care nothing for our heritage here what with the way everyone is clamoring for clouds of dust and bits of mud and mortal falling from the sky!"

"Hm," she agrees. "A very disturbing trend, is it not? I should like to look into that while I'm here. I'm sure there must be another solution. Something less... invasive."

Townsend sets his cup and saucer aside and rubs his fingertips against his whiskery chin. Thoughtfully, he observes, "Loathe as I am to allow you to refuse a position with the company, I loathe these recent practices even more. Of course, Hamish neither has the time nor the necessary... poise and diplomacy something like this would require. I, myself, have toyed a bit with the idea of making the trip into town just to see what a bit of... _clout _might accomplish. However..."

Alice nods. "Yes, Hamish mentioned the physician's... recommendations with regards to your health. And I have to say you're fortunate to be spared the fumes and stink, sir."

He very nearly snorts at that. "Diplomatic as always, Alice. Well, when the situation warrants it."

"I aspire to that very objective, sir."

"And you also aspire to disabuse those fools at the City Planning Commission of their illusions of great explosions and dramatic blasts?"

"I feel very passionately about this," she says truthfully. "Despite no longer residing in England, I cannot bear the thought of things being blown up willy-nilly. That's not the sort of thing England stands for, is it?"

"No, indeed not." Townsend sighs. "Well, I suppose – were you to consent to this undertaking – I'd be seeing more of you. And perhaps you'd be extending your stay?"

"I dare say we might," she allows. She happily makes the concession knowing where this conversation is going and delighted at the victory.

"However, I doubt very much you would be able to get very far with the Metropolitan District Railway, dear Alice. Not even with your charming husband at your side." He taps his forefingers against his bearded chin. "At the very least, you would require a letter of introduction."

"At the very least," Alice agrees. "I don't suppose you would know anyone of sufficient... _clout_ who might be kind enough to write me one?"

"I know a fellow who might be interested, for the small price of requesting afternoon tea with the two of you upon occasion."

Alice's grin is wry. She lifts her teacup. "So that you might continue to fill our heads with the glories of the trade business?" She takes a sip.

Townsend laughs. "Quite, my dear. Quite."

"Agreed," she replies easily. Truly, spending time with her former mentor will not be a hardship at all!

"Excellent! Now, let us talk of more pleasant things while we wait for the solicitor to arrive." Glancing at the clock, Townsend observes, "He's late – again! – but he'd better not try to bill me for his horse throwing a shoe or the driver taking the wrong turn!"

"The solicitor?" Alice inquires, wondering if she ought to be worried.

"Oh, yes, of course," he replies. "We can hardly expect a _deceased _woman to be taken seriously at the MDR Office, now can we? No, no, I'm afraid there's no hope for it, Alice; you'll have to be resurrected."

"Ah. Yes, I imagine that will make things easier. Most especially for the delivery of the post."

Townsend laughs. "I can always trust you to have your priorities in order!"

For a moment, Alice feels guilty at manipulating this man. No doubt she'll be dipping into his fortune as well, or at least waving it around in the faces of the railway company. It's not right that she has to play these shadowy, questionable games in order to secure Underland's future. (And then, of course, there's the chance that none of this will be enough to sway the engineers from their chosen digging method!) The ends do not justify the means. Or, at least, it doesn't seem right that they ought to!

_"Calm, Alice, please..."_ she can almost hear resonating from the mark along her arm, curving over her shoulder, and embedded in her heart.

She takes a deep breath and manages a shaky smile.

Luckily, Townsend has turned his attention to Tarrant. "It occurs to me, young man, that you aren't properly accessorized for a business meeting of the magnitude that Alice will no doubt and all too soon be in the midst of."

"That's troublesome news," he admits, although Alice finds herself entertained by the fact that he doesn't identify which point is the more troublesome: the lack of proper accessories or the conferences he'll have to endure. After a beat of silence, he continues, "I've always prided myself on being accessorized to match the occasion."

"Well, then, we shall have to find you a good walking stick!" Townsend decides. Then, with the twinkle reappearing in his eyes, he nods toward the little bell placed on the table near his elbow. "I doubt _this_ is what she had in mind when Lady Ascot left this here, but... let's give it a try, shall we?"

Abruptly, Lord Ascot lifts the bell and, holding it high above his head and pointed in the general direction of the door, rings it _most _vigorously!

Alice covers her mouth with her hand to stop the snorts of laughter. Beside her, Tarrant has to set his cup down lest his convulsive cackling manage to upset the milky tea within it.

And when Lady Ascot bursts into the room, only to be met with the request for someone to please fetch his old walking sticks, the three of them do their best to look quite innocent and unassuming. It's a hopelessly mad proposition, however. One that Alice had certainly _not _expected to encounter Up Here!

* * *

Notes:

1. Yes, walking sticks were quite "necessary" for Victorian gentlemen to carry around with them. Phallic symbol, much? (^_~)

* * *

[End of Chapter 10: Scene 1 of 3]


	97. Book 3, An Apprentice Again, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Ten: An Apprentice Again  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

The sound of the pen scratching over the watermarked stationary tells Tarrant one thing: Alice is still working. In fact, she's done nothing else other than sleep – too briefly! – and eat – too quickly! – since they'd returned to the Kingsleigh residence with a thoughtfully-provided copy of the Earl's Court Project Plans tucked under her arm.

Tarrant pauses and reconsiders his thoughts. One in particular: "thoughtfully-provided." Yes, they had been. But only after Alice had imperiously offered Lord Ascot's letter of introduction had the man at the office even bothered to pay attention to what Tarrant's Alice had been saying in very plain English:

_"I'm here as a representative from Lord Townsend Ascot of East Venture Trading, who has expressed an interest in possibly contributing to Metropolitan District Railway's most recent enterprise."_

And, at that point, Alice had paused, bravely refrained from glaring at the man who had been smiling down at her in a rather patronizing manner, and had removed the letter from Lord Ascot from her satchel.

It still **enrages **him to not only _think _of the horridly superficial views men here have of women, but to _see _those views in practice! He regrets not stepping in and grabbing that insufferable, useless lout by his starched ascot and shaking a good bit of sense into him.

_Should have..._

Yes, he should have.

_Ye'll b'ready next time, won' ye, lad?_

His left hand curls into a first. Yes, he will!

But at the moment, there are no annoyances here, in this room – the guest room in Alice's mother's house. Tarrant sighs, picks at his cravat, glances at the window and frowns at the increasingly familiar, uninspiringly smoke-grey, overcast sky beyond.

He is bored.

"You could help yourself to something in the library downstairs," Alice says from the writing desk.

He looks up and gives her a sheepish grin. "Sorry." The heart line had given him away again. He ought to keep a non-wandering thought or two on his own emotions!

Alice leans back and turns. She props her elbow up on the back of the chair, and smiles. "Or I suppose you could fetch your wife a cup of tea?"

"For her tired eyes or aching head?" he clarifies, already debating the best sort of Tea to bring her.

She gives him a self-depreciating grin.

"Ah, both, then," he replies. "I shall make myself satisfyingly useful!" Alice is still chuckling in response to his declaration when he closes the door behind him and trip-tap-toddles down the stairs to the kitchen. He knocks before entering – for it would never Do to enter a chef's Territory without permission! – but finds that the room is encouragingly vacant. He busies himself with putting a tea tray together, musing over tea trays themselves and the songs and rhymes he'd once sung about them, back in during time when teatime had been the cloak he'd pulled around himself to hide his role in the Resistance.

He's glad that teatime is now merely for tea again. As it should be.

And, speaking of things that Should Be... and Should Not Be...

Tarrant hunts for the sugar bowl and creamer as he contemplates the letter from the queen and the now-dark mirror tucked away in Alice's valise.

The queen should _not_ have given them the choice to stay or return. For even through he's aware of the unfairness of the situation, Tarrant knows the _better_ strategy is for he and Alice to _stay, _to _try _to change the course of the future, which would be most impossible from the other side of the looking glass.

And, he can See why the queen might have asked them to remain Here: having met Alice's mother and thinking of the littlin' his Alice now carries, Tarrant understands the queen's Desperation, which is quite different from her Duty. Mirana would do anything, ask anything to protect her children. Even ask the impossible of her Champion. Tarrant _Understands _this_. _And yet, despite that all-consuming impulse, Mirana had _not_ been able to orderher friends to accept their fate, possibly give themselves for the Greater Good of All.

Still, it had been unbearably cruel for her to ask them to bear the weight of that decision themselves. Suppose it is the wrong one? Suppose their efforts somehow bring about the destruction of Underland that much sooner? Suppose—

"Tarrant?"

He startles but, thankfully, the empty cream pitcher in his hand doesn't slip through his fingers and crash to the floor. "Good afternoon, Madam Kingsl—er, Helen," he replies, flustered. "I was just making up a tea tray for Alice."

"She's still working?"

"As hard as ever," he replies. "I wish I could comprehend that Business Language of hers and Lord Ascot's. Or, at the very least, loan her a fresh pair of eyes."

"I know the sentiments you speak of intimately," his mother-in-law responds, moving toward an odd, up-standing wooden box and opening the door. She removes a decanter and returns to the tea tray he's assembling on the table. He watches as she fills the cream pitcher. "It was also my husband's business, you know. I was never able to speak that language, either."

"From the look of Alice, it doesn't lend itself to being Read, either," Tarrant observes, sorting out the cups and saucers. "A more unsociable language I've yet to encounter!"

Helen's laugh sounds like a sigh.

Tarrant reaches for the water kettle, which had just begun to hiss upon the stove, and wonders aloud, "Might... might I impose upon you to ask a... personal question, madam?"

"You may."

Tarrant swallows down his anxiety and gathers up his muchness. "I realize that I am not... an ideal spouse for your daughter and that I am lacking in many ways—"

Helen pats his arm, interrupting him gently yet firmly. "Perhaps I should have made my position more clear earlier." She takes a deep breath and glances at the tea tray, which is ready to be delivered. "Why don't you take that up to Alice and I'll prepare tea for _us?_"

He does. Alice is still engrossed in the intimidating manuscript, so he pours and prepares her tea, sets the cup on the corner of the desk, brushes his fingers through her short hair, and then returns downstairs to keep his appointment with Mrs. Kingsleigh.

Tarrant finds her in the library, already seated. He pours tea for the both of them and serves the richly-hued, butter-yellow cake. When he takes his own seat and looks up, Helen is smiling. He wonders about that smile, but before he can ask, she speaks, "I've gotten the impression that things are quite different in your country. Quite different from England, I mean."

"Yes," he agrees. "Many things. For instance, this odd idea that somehow women are not suited to business. With a queen – as in Und—ah, my homeland – I would have expected women to hold more prominent positions in society."

Helen tilts her head to the side in much the same way that Alice does when in agreement with something. "I can only imagine how strange our ways may seem to you." She sighs.

"This family enjoys a solid standing in London which comes from generations of success and respectable deeds. Social standing is quite important here as it will either guarantee the future of a family or ensure its ruin. When Lowell –" Tarrant is intrigued by the sour expression on Helen's face as she says her son-in-law's name. "– asked for Margaret's hand, I could not have been more thrilled, more _relieved_. The Manchester family has a long, proud history and social standing even higher than ours. It was a most advantageous match. However..."

Tarrant feels himself lean forward and hides a smile at the thought that he must be borrowing Alice's Curiosity for stories and tales.

"As a son-in-law, he leaves much to be desired. The drinking, the... indiscretions..." She shakes her head. "That you appear to be a man quite apart from his ilk, I am very thankful for."

Tarrant feels himself blush.

"And, what's done is done. Alice has chosen you. And, as I said the other day, I believe she has chosen well. I shall have to trust you not to disappoint her, as Lowell has disappointed Margaret."

"I will not," he swears. In truth, it would be quite impossible for him to! "But... I know you... that is, did you not choose the younger Lord Ascot to be her husband at one time? Or approved of the... match?"

Helen finishes her tea and Tarrant attends to her cup, refilling it and then fixing it as he'd noticed she'd taken it. Again, that satisfied smile appears on her thin lips. When he sits back, she picks up her cup, takes a sip, and her smile widens.

"You're quite familiar with the mechanics of tea," she observes.

"I pride myself on it, madam!"

Helen sets her cup down and, her smile fading, answers his question: "Yes, at the time, I had thought Hamish would be a good choice for Alice. Charles had recently passed. The company had been sold. I knew I would have to be very careful with our funds."

She looks down into the depths of her sweetened tea. "The death of one's spouse brings to light how very... fragile and uncertain life is, despite the order we impose upon it. One day, when I am gone, who will look after Alice? I would not be able to provide for her after my death and no mother wants her children to be destitute. That was my main concern, you see. Hamish could see my conundrum and offered to..."

Tarrant winces at the thought of another man looking after _his_ Alice.

"Of course, I'd underestimated how very _stubborn _my daughter is," Helen continues with a smile. "But of course a _conventional _life would never fit her. Of course she would choose the unmarked path. And, in the end, it was the right decision."

He releases the breath he'd been holding and offers his mother-in-law a trembling smile. "I'm beyond relieved to hear you say that. And thank you for the confidence."

Helen tilts her head again, acknowledging his appreciation. "I ask only one thing of you, Tarrant." She looks up at him, a hard light in her eyes. "Do not force me to regret it."

"Although," she continues before he can open his mouth to reassure her, "I have faith that you won't. This teatime with you has spoken volumes of your character."

"And, you have enjoyed what it's told you?" he dares to confirm.

"I have indeed." She sets her cup aside and stands. Remembering the courtly manners Alice has been leading him through since their arrival, Tarrant stands as well. "And now I think it is time to prepare for dinner. We'll be dining at the Manchester House tonight with Margaret and Lowell. I trust you'll find a way to separate Alice from her work and make sure she's ready to go by six-thirty?"

"You can count on me, madam."

"I am, Tarrant. I most assuredly am."

* * *

[End of Chapter 10: Scene 2 of 3]


	98. Book 3, An Apprentice Again, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Ten: An Apprentice Again  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

The problem, Alice reflects, is not so much the dubious comprehensibility of the project plan itself (although that is a rather irksome obstacle to be dealt with) nor is the problem her lack of recent experience in the world of business (and this endeavor is demonstrating how very ill-suited she is to such pursuits); the problem is the lack of alternatives she can offer the railway company in lieu of the very effective application of explosives to aid in tunnel excavation.

Alice wanders the halls of London's museum of natural science and modern technology (all housed within a depressingly industrial building known as Brompton Boilers), her hand on Tarrant's arm and her mind all the way across town, still seated at the writing desk in the guest room. She is aware that her mind is quite obviously Elsewhere when it ought to be here, participating in this outing with her mother, sister, nephew, and husband. Alice would have felt painfully guilty over her distraction if the issue that has her mind so preoccupied weren't of the most Vital Importance. For how is she going to answer her queen's hopes if she cannot even formulate _one strategy _for delaying this abomination of a project?

Tarrant senses her preoccupation and he respects it. He leaves her to her thoughts and lingers over placards, studies printed explanations and directs his questions to either Alice's mother or sister.

She still marvels at the fact that Tarrant had somehow managed to develop a easy rapport with her mother. And the glimmer of wonderment in Margaret's eyes might have left Alice feeling rather proud of herself for her choice of husband if not for what her sister's reaction implies:

Whenever Tarrant poses a question to her elder sister, he considers her reply carefully and with both complete sincerity and his complete attention. It's quite obvious that Margaret is unused to this sort of frank and genuine exchange, which means that Lowell rarely asks for or listens to his wife's thoughts. It saddens Alice that her brother-in-law is such a waste of a human being. And it saddens her even more to think of the experiences, the joy, the _life_ he's wasting by neglecting Margaret so horridly.

Alice attempts to turn away from those thoughts as Margaret warms to her explanation of the Earth's seasons and why the north and south hemispheres vary in their patterns. The briefest glance shows Tarrant to be utterly absorbed in the lecture. Margaret _glows _under the attention.

Oh, how Alice wishes there were _something _she could do to help her sister with her marriage, but that is not why she and Tarrant are Here. They had not come through the looking glass to enlighten Margaret to her husband's shortcomings nor to help her try to change him (an impossible task if there ever was one!) but to save an entire world.

_Focus on that, Alice!_

She does.

She turns her thoughts back to the Earl's Court Project Plan and the excavation methodologies outlined therein. It's beyond frustrating that she must wrestle with unnecessarily esoteric engineering patter. And the worst part of it all is that, as a man, Lord Ascot would have been permitted to demand a _clear_ explanation of the terms used. But, as a woman, Alice knows should she make the same undeniably reasonable request she will be regarded as stupid, unprofessional, and an annoyance.

The unfairness of it all is enough to drive her _truly __**mad!**_

"Alice," Tarrant whispers in her ear, beneath the brim of her hat, and she focuses on drawing a deep, measured breath.

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Will you tell me what's troubling you now?"

Alice sighs and, exhausted from struggling with this all on her own, relents. "Clayey silt, fill loads, settlement values, soil consolidation..." she lists a few of the more mystifying terms she'd encountered in the plan. "If you happen to know what any of those mean, I'll Futterwhacken right here!"

Tarrant snorts, giggles, and smiles. His green eyes are luminous as they are wont to be whenever Alice manages to charm him unexpectedly. "I _truly _regret the loss of the opportunity to see you Futternwhacken for me, my Alice, but I'm afraid I haven't the slightest idea what any of those things are."

He covers her gloved hand, resting in the crook of his elbow, with his own and squeezes her fingers. "However, I _do _have an Idea..."

Alice feels her brows lift with surprise.

With a crafty smile, Tarrant turns his chin away and a calls, "Pardon us, ladies!"

Just up ahead her mother and sister are murmuring over a display of exotic birds from the South Pacific. They look up at Tarrant's just-loud-enough announcement.

"Might we make a detour to assist Alice with a few vexing engineering terms?"

As Helen helps Margaret get Winslow's child carriage turned around, Tarrant leads Alice over to the museum guide map which had been posted on the wall nearby. "It's lucky I asked what was troubling you as we passed by this helpful feature, isn't it?"

"Quite the coincidence," Alice agrees, a suspicion beginning to form in her mind.

"Hm. Yes. Now, let's see..." He leans close to the framed building layout and studies it with singular intensity. "Perhaps the department of geology? If I'm not mistaken, one of those pesky phrases had sounded a bit clay-ish. And then... yes! Here." He taps the glass with a be-cottoned fingertip. "Perhaps the London City Earthworks Exhibit will assist with a few of the others?"

Alice knows she's gaping at him when, with a brief nod of satisfaction, he turns away from the museum guide.

"Alice?" he asks, obviously Entertained (but trying very hard to look Puzzled) by her silent ogling.

"I... _adore_ you," she confesses. _Now _she understands why he'd insisted on visiting Brompton Boilers today!

Tarrant blinks, smiles, and indulges in a brief giggle. "So you approve of today's distraction after all?"

Alice feels ashamed of herself for her notably less-than-enthusiastic agreement over his suggested plan-for-the-day this morning. It hadn't been the destination that had irritated her – she'd been planning to bring him here eventually, after all! – it had been the _timing!_ But now she sees that, true to form, Tarrant's timing is, in fact, utterly Perfect!

She aches to remove her gloves and press her bare hands against his cheeks and kiss him soundly. She settles for: "You are, without a doubt, the most saganistute man alive, Tarrant Hightopp."

He preens; she can see it in his incandescent smile and abundantly fluffed cravat. Even the unimpressively straight lapels of his jacket seem to stand at attention!

She muses aloud, suspicions nearly all confirmed now, but wanting to hear him Admit it: "How did you know I was struggling so badly with that report?"

He admits bashfully, "I took the liberty of looking over your notes last night."

While she'd been in the bath. Of course. She wraps her other hand around his arm and leans closer. "Well, I'm _very _glad you did. Nosey Parker."

His bushy eyebrows fly up toward the brim of his hat and his bright green eyes blink owlishly. "No, no, I'm afraid you're mistaken. No Parkers here, Alice, only Hatters."

"A wonderfully wise, incorrigibly curious, munificently mad one," she agrees.

Only a man possessed of a genius _this _mad would have thought to drag her away from her questions to the _one place_ where she'll be able to educate herself on the solutions! Only a man so used to and accepting of her innate stubbornness would have formulated this plan and implemented it without pressing her to reveal her frustrations before she was ready!

Smiling now, Alice chats with her mother and sister as they make their way to the geology exhibits... where Alice gets a _much _better idea of what clayey silt actually is! And then they tramp across the building to the civil engineering exhibits and Alice finds herself staring at a display dedicated to the 18-year-long construction of the Thames Tunnel.

Alice _devours _the information on the display, her smile widening.

"Raven?" Tarrant murmurs, no doubt feeling her excitement buzzing along his heart line.

Alice tightens her fingers around his arm and whispers back, "I know what to do next."

She looks up, feeling as if her entire being has been remade from pure _hope._

Tarrant beams. "Then, what are we waiting for?"

And with that, Alice turns toward her mother and sister and makes their apologies for their abrupt and hasty departure.

* * *

Notes:

1. The civil engineering terms I use in this chapter (which Alice lists for Tarrant) are _modern _terms I grabbed from the following article abstract on ASCE (American Society of Civil Engineers): "Preloading at the South End of Confignon Tunnel" by Rene Marche, Alain Menoret, & Philippe Mayu. This was gibberish to me, so I figured it would be believable gibberish to Alice. Although I highly doubt these terms were used by Victorian Era British civil engineers. Yup, whipped out my Artistic License again! I'm sure getting' a lotta mileage outta this baby!

2. More Artistic License Abuse: I'm blatantly overlooking the construction of the Tower Subway (which had been going on during this time: 1869 – 1870) in order to borrow a few historic figures in civil engineering in the following chapter.

3. Yes, there were baby buggies/prams in the Victorian Era. (Thank you Wikipedia!) They were called "children's carriages" or something along those lines rather than baby buggies or baby prams.

* * *

[End of Chapter 10]


	99. Book 3, Gathering Allies, 1 of 3

This scene has been edited from its original version. The original version (which contains sexual situations) is available on my homepage for readers who are of age. Thank you.

_**

* * *

Chapter Eleven: Gathering Allies  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

Tarrant still has _no Idea _what these things called "patents" are, despite Alice's explanation.

Alice had been frustratingly vague during the cab journey, talking in circles about these mysterious objects they seek:

"Patents are a record of a person's valuable ideas," she'd said, matter-of-factly. "To ensure the rights of the inventor's intellectual property are respected."

Tarrant had focused on the first point (of many) that he'd felt required additional clarification: "What sort of record?"

"A written one."

"An Idea on paper?"

"Yes."

"Alice..."

"Yes?"

"Ideas reside in the Mind. Necessarily."

"I know."

"But..."

"Don't worry about that now," she'd gently insisted. "The real question is how to find the _Right Idea._"

"I see..." But he hadn't.

Alice had continued, "Of course, the _logical _course would be to go to the Metropolitan District Railway offices and simply _ask _if they're aware of the idea we're looking for."

"And... they would tell us?" he'd wondered aloud, trying to follow his wife's Logic.

Alice had smirked. "No. I don't think they would."

Tarrant had frowned in confusion which Alice had interrupted with a pat on his arm.

"It's my turn to be brilliant. Have a little faith, Hatter."

"I have considerably more than_ a little!_" He'd actually been a bit miffed at the implication that his devotion is somehow _not _absolute.

"I misspoke," she'd quickly admitted, possibly because his sudden irritation had raced along the heart line. Yet another Emotion had Shared itself, and again without his consent! But, in his defense, it has been _years _and _years _since Tarrant has had a reason to keep his feelings to himself! He's simply out of practice!

_'Twouldnae be b'cause ye're terrified o' this place wi'out yer Alice at yer side?_

No, no, of course not!

_So, ye're no'tryin' teh remind her teh keep ye in mind, on her mind, at all times?_

Well... um...

_Tha's what I thought... In seven years, ye hav'nae come as far as ye thought ye had, eh, lad?_

Remembering that brief, internal discussion, Tarrant sighs: he supposes not. He Depends upon Alice far, far too much sometimes. For more than just his sanity.

"What I meant to say," Alice had thankfully continued. "Is to have a little more _patience._"

"...Oh."

Oh, indeed. And it's patience he truly needs!

_Was that...? Yes, I believe it was: iambic pentameter!_

It's a shame he can't share it with Alice at the moment.

He glances at his wife as she shakes her head at yet another small-ish card she's presented with. Perhaps _this_ is the patent? But, no, it can't be, as it's not the One they seek... Still, it would be Helpful to know what the blasted thing is supposed to look like! Imagine an Idea on paper! He huffs.

_Are patents the paper or the Idea? How can an Idea be confined to a few scraps of paper at all? And what has an inventor's Rights anything to do with the number of thimbles under the pincushion?_

Although the concept Escapes him (but, when Time allows, he'll be sure to Capture it later!) and even seems to Escape the junior clerk who had been relegated to assisting them, Alice appears to have the situation well In Hand.

"No, no," she insists with a thinning patience Tarrant can sense – itching! – along his arm beneath his layers and ever-present glove. (At least he's not the only one with difficulty corralling wayward Emotions!) Her voice, however, remains pleasant enough. "I require civil engineering patents. Regarding subterranean tunnel construction."

The clerk fumbles through the long, thin, wooden drawer containing countless small cards. "Um, here's one for tunnel drilling," he says uncertainly, lifting out the card for Alice to read while he holds its place open between its fellow cards with his index finger.

Tarrant bites down on a giggle: Indexing with one's index finger! Of course!

Alice leans forward and scans the card. "No, this looks like ore extraction of some sort. I believe we must be looking in the Mining Section."

Flustered, the young man replaces the card and fiddles with the contents of the drawer. He draws out a few more cards, seemingly at random, and then turns back to the absolutely _intimidating_ wall of similar, small, wooden drawers and selects another.

"Are these patents?" Tarrant can't help but whisper to Alice when their... _helper's_ back is turned.

"No. These are reference cards with brief descriptions of the patented ideas."

"And are the Ideas themselves here?"

"Yes, but only expressed on paper."

_Again with that odd insistence that an Idea must somehow be connected to paper of some kind!_

Tarrant sighs and watches the Concept race over and beyond the horizon of his comprehension.

It takes the excavation of five more drawers, the careful examination of a least two dozen more cards, and three more attempts by Tarrant to define _exactly _what the nature of these Upland Ideas is before the first tingle of satisfaction dances against his heart.

"Ah..." Alice sighs. "This looks to be the right drawer."

The clerk looks easily twice as relieved as Alice. Tarrant wishes he could participate in the moment of enlightenment.

There's a bit more shuffling and sifting through the cards and Tarrant idly wonders what time it is. The large office they're in is rather rudely lacking in both windows _and_ time pieces. Tarrant muses that perhaps he should have brought his pocket watchalong with him today - after all, despite it being stubbornly broken – In fact, the thing is quite possibly _more _stubborn than his Alice is! And that's quite the distinguishing point! – if he'd had it in his pocket-watch pocket, it would have given Tarrant something to legitimately fiddle with every few minutes or so. That's the least the usal-naught bit of rubbish could do, he's sure! (Although it would probably complain at being disturbed so much. Still... he'll be sure to keep it with at all Times from now on!)

"Here, these!" Alice says suddenly, holding out five cards to the clerk.

Tarrant experiences the inexplicable urge to shout "Trump!" He refrains, but – thinking of Thackery, confetti, and hairy toes – giggles. Luckily, the clerk had already vanished through a door behind the long counter.

"Entertaining yourself?" Alice murmurs with a tired smile.

Tarrant tilts his head to the side. "A bit. 'Hare' and there."

"I'll ask you to explain that little nugget of amusement later."

"And I shall, in exchange, ask for a _comprehensible _description of these _patents _we're seeking."

Alice's spine stiffens. If not for the tightening at the corners of her lips – to circumvent a smile! – he'd think she was Upset with him. "My explanation was perfectly sound. You can't hold _me _accountable for the fact that _your_ brilliantly mad genius refuses to integrate utterly mundane and tedious, short-sighted Uplander rationale."

Tarrant grins at her. He's still horridly confused... however, he doesn't feel quite so Bad about it now.

The clerk returns and Alice looks over the patents. Tarrant squints at them but he can't find anything particularly extra-ordinary about them; no, no, they appear to be quite normal sheets of paper with plan black ink. Although perhaps they're Special because of the abundance of carefully-drawn illustrations and various dimensions provided for each aspect of the figures shown...?

Alice inspects the fourth patent more carefully than the others. Tarrant dares to lean over her shoulder a bit and glimpses a strange diagram of men digging a tunnel while standing on some sort of suspended platform within the very structure they're excavating.

Alice reads the description of the... Idea carefully. (Hm... perhaps _that's _what a patent is? But then, why would an Idea need a description on paper? Could it be because Ideas are wont to come and go as they please? Must be... _Oh! That had very __**nearly**__ been a case of iambic pentameter! Perhaps if I..._)

"If you would be so kind as to supply me with this inventor's information," Alice says, interrupting Tarrant's thoughts. "Oh, pardon me. _Inventors_, plural," she amends when she flips back to the first page. "I'd greatly appreciate it."

"My pleasure, madam."

Tarrant doesn't doubt it. The lad looks ready to break down in tears of exhaustion from attending to Alice's demands. Tarrant keeps his thoughts to himself (Thoughts regarding Alice and her wonderfully Demanding tendencies!) as the clerk pens the names and addresses of the inventors credited with the patent. When finished, Alice accepts the card, thanks the lad, and doesn't wait for him to see them out.

As they step out onto the dusty, smoggy, gritty, soot-blackened street again, Alice raises her arm to hail a passing cab.

"Alice?" Tarrant asks as he helps her into the carriage.

"Yes?"

"Did we find the patent you were looking for, then? Because, I'd just like to point out that, _if _you were intending to take it with us, we've left it behind."

Alice smiles and reaches out a hand to him. He grasps it and climbs into the carriage after her. As the cab lurches into motion on its way to the Kingsleigh residence, Alice assures him, "We found it. And, while finding the patent was very important, what we really needed were the names and residences of the inventors."

Tarrant considers this. "And now we'll fight the use of dynamite?"

"Yes," she says. And then, will a sly, sideways smile, compliments him, "I enjoyed that lovelyiambic pentameter, Hatter."

He giggles at her answering verse. "For your delight, I'd rhyme with all my might."

"Writing desk," she replies, beaming.

"Raven," he agrees. Tarrant highly doubts he'll ever get a satisfactory explanation of what a patent is but, at the moment, he couldn't care less.

* * *

Notes:

1. The patent office: No idea where it was or what system was used or if anybody could just come in off the street and look something up. There went that Artistic License again!

2. The tunneling technology Alice finds actually exists and was developed and patented in 1870. Until this time, a method called cut-and-cover was employed for digging most tunnels. (Cut-and-cover basically means, they knocked down whatever was standing over the tunnel site, dug a big trench, reinforced and lined it, then built the "ground" back on top of it. A timely and costly technique.) In 1818, a technique that allowed for tunneling under bodies of water was created by Sir Marc Brunel and it was called tunnel shielding. This was used in the construction of the Thames Tunnel (1825-1843) but in 1870 two assistant engineers by the names of Peter Barlow and James Greathead redesigned the system and drastically improved it, making it faster, cheaper, and safer. This became the tunnel shielding system called the Barlow-Greathead Shield. Using this method, the Tower Subway was built beneath the Thames river from 1869-1870 (but, as I mentioned in the previous chapter's notes, I'm ignoring this). So, tunneling technology improved big time (from taking 18 years to less than two!) and it is _this _Idea that Alice uses to counter the proposed use of dynamite to speed up the cut-and-cover method.

* * *

[End of Chapter 11: Scene 1 of 3]


	100. Book 3, Gathering Allies, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Eleven: Gathering Allies  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

"And you feel these young men may have a viable solution?" Lord Ascot inquires shrewdly.

Despite the fact that Tarrant is _sure_ Lord Ascot's study has not changed since their previous visit, there is something Different about it now. He draws in a deep breath, spies the flash of Muchness in his wife's eyes and decides the Difference he senses must be the scent of Victory. Yes, Alice appears far too confident and pleased with herself for him to assume otherwise: one way or another, Underland's Champion is going to use this discovery against the fiends who would carelessly destroy their world. And when that threat has been countered...

They'll return... _home_... to Mamoreal... together... and everything will be... _perfect!_

Tarrant smiles at the Thought.

Alice nods, "After speaking with the Misters Greathead and Barlow at length over dinner last night, I'm _sure _of it. Not only is it completely undisruptive of existing structures above the tunnel site, but – considering the _frightful _price of dynamite, it will be less costly as well!"

Tarrant thinks Lord Ascot might have clapped his hands in glee if the man had been capable of using them both.

Alice leans back a bit, her expression taking a turn for the hesitant. "But before I go into the details on the process, I'd like to make a suggestion, sir."

"Yes, my dear?"

Tarrant watches as Alice gathers her thoughts and explains, "Given the considerable upheaval we might be causing to the project plans, I'm sure the project planners will require a considerable amount of... placating before they'll agree to seriously consider implementing a new tunneling method, and one that's been developed by a pair of young, inexperienced, assistant engineers."

Townsend frowns. "Pardon me, Alice, but it sounds as if you have some doubt regarding the method."

"No," she replies with absolute conviction. "I believe this will work _brilliantly_, sir. However, I believe we will hear that particular objection more than once over the next few days."

"Hm... I'm sure you're right. So, let's return to the topic of your suggestion. What ought to be done about the resistance we'll no doubt encounter? You aren't about to suggest I throw even _more _money at them, are you?"

Alice grins. "Only after a fashion. I think they might be sufficiently swayed to your way of thinking with a bit of flattery."

"Such as?"

"A soiree. Commemorating the accomplishments of those involved with the underground railway."

Lord Ascot throws back his head and laughs. "My dear, you _are_ a wonder, aren't you?"

"Do you think you and Lady Ascot could organize a function of that magnitude so soon? Perhaps before Saturday?"

"Alice, dear, Lady Ascot organizes the utterly civilized and bloodless coups of major London charity societies in her _sleep!_" The image that conjures in Tarrant's mind is... vivid. "A soiree will be sorted out over dessert tonight!"

"However," Townsend continues with a measuring look at both Alice and Tarrant, "you _do _know what would be required of the both of you should we continue with this mad plan to woo the un-woo-able city commissioners and railway administrators?"

Alice sighs. "I do. I'll have the appropriate garments ordered right away." She turns to Tarrant and he feels his brows draw together in concern at her remorseful expression. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to force a tailcoat on you."

"A... what?"

"A jacket of the foulest sort," Townsend contributes cheerfully. "As are the trappings made to be worn under it. Meant to force a man's body into the figure and form the queen most admires. Thank the saints I'll have the excuse of this bloody chair to explain my lack of participation in _that _trial!"

"And, I'm afraid..." Her gaze flickers aside to his hat which is resting on the sideboard beside hers. (No, he _still _hasn't permitted _any_ butler to relieve him of it!) She sighs with regret.

"It's fine, Alice," he hears himself say. "I wouldn't want the other hats to feel out of place were mine to attend."

Townsend laughs and Alice gives him an apologetic smile. Tarrant almost feels encouraged enough to allow one of the bland and inferior creations of the Upland haberdashers to touch his head. Almost. Perhaps he won't wear a hat at all...

When the discussion turns toward the project plan and Greathead and Barlow's engineering innovations, Tarrant excuses himself:

"I think I'll step across the hall and see if I might intrude upon your mother and Lady Ascot for tea, Alice."

Alice pats his arm. "I'm sure they'll be able to tell you all about the typical tortures of a soiree. You'll be sufficiently horrified by the time Townsend and I are finished here."

Lord Ascot laughs. "How true, Alice, how true! And, Tarrant, if you would mention Alice's suggestion – the soiree, I mean – to Lady Ascot and let her know I'll discuss it with her later?"

Tarrant nods and – a bit reluctantly – quits the room in order to pay a visit to the ladies across the hall. He has to admit that he's a bit nervous about this soiree event – whatever _that _is! – but he doubts Helen will frighten him all _that much!_ Well, not _Intentionally!_ She might use that threatening gleam in her blue eyes to warn him against disappointing her daughter, but he doesn't think she'd be cruel _purposefully._..

"But, Helen, just _look _at the man!"

Only a step away from the door to the conservatory, with his arm extended toward the latch, Tarrant pulls himself up short. (Or, rather, _tall_. One generally grows taller when effecting a sudden stop rather than shorter!) He stops and discovers he can do little else other than listen to the sounds of teatime and obvious disgust and derision. (_A very unflattering combination_, he notes!)

The thin door is no barrier at all to Lady Ascot's harsh and relentless criticism: "That horrid hat! And his hair? What sort of society permits men to wear their hair in such a barbaric fashion while allowing young ladies to chop theirs off! Why, Alice looks as if she's sold that beautiful hair of hers to a wig-maker for a shilling!"

"Geraldine..." Helen attempts.

"Now, I _realize _that you're thrilled to have your daughter back after all this time, but _honestly _Helen, how can you have that _man _in your home? He can't possibly be at all suitable for a woman of Alice's bloodlines! _Some _standards _must _be observed if you hope to keep your daughters above the line!"

"Gerry, while I appreciate your... suggestions. My daughters' standings in Society will climb or fall not because of Tarrant Hightopp but because of that _blighter_ of Margaret's!"

"Good gracious, Helen. Whatever is wrong with Lowell? He's charming; he's wealthy; he comes from a long line of highly respected—"

"One can only trade on the blessings of one's forefathers for so long," Helen replies wearily. "Lowell is quickly wearing through his."

Lady Ascot sighs. "I thank the Lord every day that Townsend and I were blessed with our sensible Hamish. I do not envy you that barbarian for a son-in-law!"

"Geral_dine!_ How many times do I have to tell you? Tarrant is a man of unsurpassable character. He _dotes _on Alice, which is far more than Lowell is capable. Not _all _of us are concerned with wealth and titles! A man is merely a man and his title merely that, a title, and cold comfort during the hardships life is wont to throw at us! _Do _try to keep that distinction in mind!"

Realizing he's not only _still _standing beside the closed door but also _eavesdropping on a __**private conversation,**_ Tarrant backs away with no thought in his head aside from avoiding the active _loathing _in the conservatory. He glances toward the study door and winces. If he returns now, he'll have to explain to Alice why he hadn't been able to join her mother and Lady Ascot for tea...

"It's hard to believe they're the closest of friends, isn't it? Or, they are when they choose to be, rather."

Tarrant turns with a start and sees none other than Hamish Ascot, attired in what must be the Upland version of active wear, standing only a few paces away. He studies Hamish's expression – resigned, exasperated, haughty – as the man considers the closed door.

"It's the way of well-bred women to provide an animated account of a man's faults," the man who had once asked Tarrant's Alice to marry him continues. "An obligation, even."

The man's watery blue eyes focus on Tarrant, on his unremarkable suit and long hair. "In your case, you could only benefit from the criticism."

Tarrant's eyes narrow. "Maybe so," he replies, struggling against his inclination to burr and brogue at the man. Alice had explained to him that Outlandish would not be looked upon Well at all Up Here. "It should be every man's ultimate goal to emulate a fine gentleman such as yourself."

Hamish blinks at that.

Tarrant is almost proud of himself for having successfully beaten down the sarcasm and snarl that had tried to claw their way out of his throat. His only thought as he'd done so had been the hopeful avoidance of causing a Scene in the home of Alice's former employer. He might not be sure about a lot of things Up Here, but he knows how disappointed Alice would be in him were he to embarrass her _here_.

Still, despite the effort, he hadn't expected the younger Ascot's shoulders to un-tense or his expression to un-freeze. Odd.

With a look that is more considering than patronizing, Hamish muses, "Perhaps it would be my duty to assist you with that goal, then."

Tarrant struggles with forming a refusal that is bland enough to satisfy the minimum requirements of common decency. It's a far more difficult task than he'd thought it would be.

Hamish breaks the awkward silence. Abruptly, he says, "I'm just now heading out to the range. Would you care to join me, Hightopp?"

The invitation is a surprise and that is the only reason Tarrant doesn't refuse it outright. And it's a lucky thing he doesn't, for when the shock wears off an instant later, Tarrant receives a surprising visit from Rational Thought:

Given his other available choices, Tarrant concedes that spending an hour or so in the company of Hamish Ascot might not be the _worst _decision he could make. "If I won't be intruding," he manages.

"Not at all," the man replies in that insufferably superior air of his.

Swallowing down a sigh, Tarrant falls into step beside him.

_The Range_, Tarrant discovers, is a wide yard some distance from both the manor and the stables. The journey is accomplished in stiff, awkward silence. As they approach a scenic spot – a small cottage with a wide veranda and a tea table with three chairs circling it – Hamish removes the large, wooden case from beneath his arm. Tarrant watches him set the thing down on the wrought iron tea table.

"Have you any interest in hunting sports?" Hamish asks.

As the man opens the lid, Tarrant sees something that sets his heart racing. Within, somehow obscenely nestled in fine, dark green velvet, is an object which – despite the Wrongness of its shape and size – reminds him of the revolving (no, no _revolver!_ That's the correct name for it!) that Alice insists on carrying with her in her business satchel.

"... No," Tarrant hears himself reply on a strangled whisper. He clears his throat. "The hunting of others is not encouraged by my queen." Nor should it be!

Hamish lifts out the stretched-too-long revolver-like item. Perhaps it's an older, warped cousin of the gun in Alice's bag...

"It's the mark of a superior mind to recognize one's place in the world. And it's a man's duty to assert his will over nature," Hamish lectures as he opens the... thing in his hands and slides a single slender, brassy object into it. "Many prefer to use pistols in games using targets, but I find the rifle a better fit."

Tarrant watches him pat the thing wedged in the crook of his arm. "A more... noble instrument, requiring fortitude and discipline to master. Anyone can lift and shoot a _pistol_," the man says with a slight sneer, "but few have the patience and temperament of mind to develop any skill with a rifle."

With a tight nod, Hamish pivots on his heel and steps out from under the veranda. Tarrant follows him warily. They circle around to the back of the too-beautiful cottage and Tarrant finds a counter set up along the length of the structure. Hamish steps behind the long, high table and reaches up toward the cottage's eaves. There, he grasps an old bell and rings it forcefully. Tarrant resists cringing as the racket echoes across the lawn and into the forest beyond.

Hamish must have noticed the confusion Tarrant had manfully kept from voicing because he says, "It alerts any and all in the immediate area that the shooting range is in use. It would be most irresponsible to allow an accident to occur."

Tarrant nods.

Hamish gestures down the length of the yard then, toward the edge of the forest. "Our targets are there." Tarrant leans over the high table and peers at three covered bales of straw. The fabric stretched over them has a smallish red spot in the center of each.

The sound of the rifle being snapped back into its long, straight shape draws Tarrant's gaze back to Hamish. The man lifts the object to his right shoulder, aligns it with the targets beyond, peers down the length of it, cradles it in much the same way the newlywed lads had accepted the hand and arm of their new brides when they'd danced the Wedded Step...

_BANG!_

Tarrant jumps as the thunder clap destroys both his musings _and _any similarity of this ritual to the one most sacred to _all_ Outlanders.

Hamish lowers the rifle, a satisfied smile on his face. "You see there? A good shot. Not my best, but it's been too long since I've made time for a bit of practice."

Fisting his hands to stop the unsettling shiver that trembles just beneath his skin, Tarrant glances across the field at the targets and can just barely make out a small, dark spot very near the red spot on the taut, white cloth. For a moment, he doesn't know what that signifies...

But then...

Then...!

Tarrant looks from the _rifle_ in Hamish's hands to the small box of brass objects – "bullets" Alice had once called them, he remembers! – to the black spot on the target and...

_It's a Weapon,_ he realizes. Of course, he'd known it was dangerous! He'd known by the way Alice had treated the revolver that such things were dangerous. He'd _known _both this rifle and the revolver were weapons, but... but...

_Ye di'nae realize it coul'kill ye dead in naught but an instant, di'ye lad?_

No, no, he hadn't.

Dear Fates, the Power of these machines! The **terrible** Possibility they embody...! Why, one would not even need to look one's enemy in the eye to kill him. And so ruthlessly, _callously, __**coldly...!**_

"Don't have firearms in your country, do you?" Hamish assumes more than asks.

"No, and _that's _a lucky thing," Tarrant admits. Or, dearest Fates, what would have happened on that Frabjous Day? Would there have even _been _a Frabjous Day at all with a weapon like this under the command of the Bluddy Behg Hid and that monster, Stayne?

Hamish objects. "_Lucky?_ How do you imagine that, sir? Why, without firepower, how do you defend your country? With sticks and stones?"

Hamish's sneer pulls a snarling grimace out of the Place within him where Tarrant had locked up all those hotheaded Reactions. In the next instant, Hamish's rifle is tumbling to the table and Tarrant has the man spun around with the knife from Mamoreal at his pale, quivering throat.

Tarrant answers. "Th' hard way, Ascot. Th' _honorable_ way," Tarrant hears himself reply in a guttural tone. "Th' way 'twas meant teh be b'twix twine men. S'tha'when his blood i'spilt on th'grauwnd, it satisfies yer thirst f'r vengeance..."

Tarrant closes his eyes, forces the memories of battles fought long ago back to the depths of his mind, and allows the concerned warmth he feels from Alice to calm him. In the next breath, he's himself again; he replies to her, reassures her, and apologizes for interrupting her meeting.

He takes a step back from the still-frozen form of Hamish Ascot and tucks the knife away. Yes, he knows he ought to apologize. But for what? Hamish Ascot had tried to Impress him with that rifle. Tarrant had reciprocated in his own fashion. However, it seems they'd only succeeded in terrifying one another.

Tarrant gives the startled man a wry grin and says in a droll tone, "And _that's _how we fight wars where _I _come from."

"Barbaric!" Hamish declares, reaching for his familiar security crutch – _that blasted rifle!_

Tarrant snorts a brief giggle at the pun.

"You're _mad!_" the man declares in reply to Tarrant's inappropriate humor.

"Absolutely!" he agrees, grinning with delight.

He almost expects Hamish to threaten him with the rifle or stomp off toward the house, but he does neither. He blinks like a flunderwhapped borogove.

"Mad..." Hamish muses and then his expression sours. "I suppose _that's _what she sees as one of your _better _qualities!"

Tarrant feels his right eyelid twitch. _Alice. This man is talking about __**my**__ Alice!_ Tarrant replies with as much self control as he can scrape together with his clawing, imaginary fingers, "She's told me just that on countless occasions."

Hamish's hands tighten around the rifle, but Tarrant doesn't worry about the fact that the man's still holding it. After all, Tarrant still has his knife and in such close quarters, he's fairly confident that his dagger gives him an advantage over Hamish and his long-barreled firearm. But it won't come to that, he's sure.

_Are ye?_

Yes.

"You're just as utterly mad as Alice is," Hamish informs him. His sour expression tightening, the younger Ascots declares, "Which I suppose means you manage to waste valuable time contemplating gentlemen in dresses and ladies in trousers!"

Tarrant giggles. Hamish looks completely offended by the sound. Tickled to his toes, Tarrant tells him, "Not only that, but when the occasion calls for it, the men of _my _homeland don the skirts, and the ladies the trousers!"

Hamish's grimace smoothes away and Tarrant is shocked to hear a snorting, nasal-y chuckle squeak out of the man. "That must be a rather remarkable occasion, Hightopp."

"It was," Tarrant replies, remembering Frabjous Day, his kilt, Alice's armor, the sounds of battle...

"I'm sure Alice was thrilled to take part," Hamish interrupts the dark parade of memories. "She enjoys any excuse at all to indulge her contrary nature."

Tarrant can't disagree with that, oddly enough. Alice's contrariness transcends Worlds. Contrary to her core, his Alice is! "Yes, and I believe she always will."

Hamish looks up and Tarrant finds himself on the receiving end of the man's evaluating stare. Tarrant can only guess what the man sees in his expression, for if it reflects what Tarrant feels, then there must be love, devotion, respect, admiration, frustration, and acceptance written on his face for the world to see.

And, perhaps, Hamish _does _see all of those things. The man seems to relax completely for the first time in Tarrant's presence. "You really _are_ the right man for Alice," Hamish says softly and Tarrant thinks he sees the lingering pain in those watery blue eyes evaporate. "It's just as she said," he concludes.

A little puzzled, Tarrant watches as Hamish turns away and looks out over the range. He sighs and Tarrant imagines a great weight leaving him. The man sets the rifle down on the table and, suddenly, turns back toward Tarrant with a _real _smile.

"I never congratulated you, sir, on your nuptials." Hamish thrusts out his right hand. Offers it. Tarrant gapes. "My best wishes for your future, Lord Hightopp. For both you and your wife."

A bit numb – startled! – Tarrant accepts the handshake. "Thank you, Lord Ascot. On behalf of my wife and myself."

Hamish nods once in that uniquely decisive manner of his, as if something of great importance had been settled... finally. "Now, as we've tramped all the way out here, can I interest you in a try with the rifle?"

Before Tarrant can reply, Hamish soldiers on. "You've Alice to look after, you know, and as effective as your skills may be in _your_ country, here we use firearms. You wouldn't want to be tested and found lacking when I'm offering to educate you free of charge, now would you?"

_Well, when it's put that way..._

"That would be unforgivable," Tarrant replies.

Hamish beams.

"And, should you discover the curiosity for it, I should be pleased to show you what to do with a broadsword, a claymore, or a knife, Ascot."

The man barks out a laugh. "Perhaps I shall take you up on that, Hightopp."

And then he places the rifle in Tarrant's hands and begins his lecture on the proper handling of it. Tarrant ignores the way his skin crawls at touching such a beast of a machine. He focuses on Alice, on his promise to keep her and their littlin' safe... protect them. Even the prideful note in Hamish's voice serves as a good distraction and Tarrant finds a smile tugging at his mouth.

Yes, oddly enough, Alice's former Intended is not nearly as intolerable as Tarrant had first thought.

_It must be the nature of Uplandish things, _he muses, sighting as Hamish had instructed him. _Nothing is what it appears to be..._

And when he pulls the trigger and the butt of the weapon nearly knocks his shoulder out of its joint, Tarrant can't help but feel an odd sense of satisfaction...

... and he wonders if this sensation is anything like what Alice feels as she continually discovers the mysteries and complexities of Underland.

* * *

Notes (continued):

3. Men in the Victorian Era were actually required to wear a kind of corset, too. (Perhaps the precursor to the cummerbund?) It was a very Uncomfortable Era for EVERYONE.

4. And I just gave Lady Ascot a name (Gerladine) since I have no idea what the woman's first name actually is. *flashes The License*

5. OK, so, I was all set to just let Hamish "fade into the background" of this story when, suddenly, something Happened:

Manny: [busily typing away]

Tarrant: [pitter-patters over and taps on Manny's shoulder] Excuse me, mistress?

Manny: Yeah? What now? More "quality time" with Alice?

Tarrant: Oh, would you? [gets hearts in his eyes] That would be wonderf—! Oh, er, ahem. Yes, please-and-thank-you! But you see, there's something else, er, that is... [glances over his shoulder and Hamish shows up] Hamish and I would like to be... friends.

Manny: ... friends? [_Looks_ at Hamish]

Hamish: I would not be opposed to a mutually beneficial acquaintanceship with Hightopp here.

Manny: ... (O.o)... uh, really?

Tarrant: So, can we?

Manny: Um, can you what?

Tarrant: [huffs] _Be friends!_

Manny: Um... if Hamish promises to behave himself, I... guess so...

Hamish: How dare you insinuate that I would be anything less than a perfect gentleman!

Manny: Buddy, I'm the Writer. I'll Insinuate all over your lily white be-hind if I feel like it!

Tarrant: She will. She _really _will. Don't make her angry.

Hamish: Fine. I'll agree to act true to my _perfectly proper_ character _**if **_you make sure Hightopp here doesn't go berserk on me. I don't care if he's mad; I'm not touching his face to calm him down! It's just not Done!

Manny: Agreed. OK, boys, congrats. You're buds now.

Tarrant: Fabulous! Fancy a cuppa, Hamish?

Hamish: If there's a dollop of brandy in it, perhaps.

Tarrant: You _enjoy _that Bandersnatch bile?

Hamish: Hightopp, if you can't use the Queen's English I shall have to rethink this male bonding nonsense you've gotten me to agree to!

Manny: [watches as they wander off] Those two better not make me add any more chapters... [goes back to typing] ...

* * *

[End of Chapter 11: Scene 2 of 3]


	101. Book 3, Gathering Allies, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Eleven: Gathering Allies  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Alice stares at Hamish. Or perhaps she gapes. Gawks.

"What?" he asks with a defensive sniff, taking the seat opposite her in the carriage and closing the door firmly.

The driver slaps the reins and the horse steps into the street. Still, Alice can't quite gather her thoughts. "What's happened between you and Tarrant?" she manages.

Surely, that... that _display_ in the foyer of her mother's home had not been... _real!_ In no _conceivable _version of events would Tarrant and Hamish speak to each other in perfectly civil, friendly tones and then _giggle like naughty boys at the mere mention of the word __**"skirt"!**_

Or, at least, she's pretty sure that had been the catalyst. What had she said? How had Hamish started it? Oh, yes:

"Alice, you'd better not indulge in any fancies regarding the commandeering of today's meeting. We can't know that these stodgy businessmen have the fortitude to withstand such a shock." He'd held out his hand. "I'll review your notes and make sure they're addressed in due course."

With a resigned sigh, Alice had handed them over.

"Alice?" Tarrant had wondered aloud, blinking at her.

She'd shrugged helplessly. "Well, he's right; I'm the one in the skirt, after all!"

What had been so blasted funny about _that?_

"Hamish," she prompts him. "Why are you and my husband sharing jokes now?"

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean. He's an amiable sort, once you acclimate yourself to his oddities."

"I... you... he..." Alice exchanges her stare for a glare. "When did you decide oddity was _amiable_. Last I knew, you barely tolerated it!"

Hamish leans back against his seat, radiating smugness. "We spent an hour out on the range the other day."

Alice is back to gaping again. "The day before yesterday, you mean? The other day at your father's country estate? The _shooting _range at your father's estate?" She can remember hearing the muffled sounds of rifle fire. Lord Ascot had dismissed the racket with a word: _"Hamish."_

"Yes."

"You taught _Tarrant how to use a GUN?_"

"Goodness, calm down, Alice. We're supposed to comport ourselves as professionals this morning!"

She slaps aside his scolding. "Well, we're not there yet, are we? Plenty of time to be upset and unreasonable!"

"Just as long as you recognize your own faults," he comments.

"No, _I'm _upset. _You're _unreasonable! A _**gun**_, Hamish?" The very Idea of Tarrant holding such a foul, ruthless, underhanded piece of weaponry in his hands offends her!

He gives her a stern look. "The man needed to know, Alice. He's too innocent for this world. Carries a bloody _knife _around under his jacket. What good will _that _do against the weapon of choice in this country? Honestly! I thought you would have seen to that during the voyage here if not before!"

Alice shakes her head, unable to understand him. "Why would you bother? Has Tarrant managed to endear himself to you as well?"

Hamish harrumphs. "Of course not! However, between your husband and that useless lush of Margaret's, I can bloody well _see _which one would step forward to protect you and your mother and sister. You and I both know Lowell would never raise a hand to fight for anyone but himself. And yet Hightopp, who has enough decency to make an effort on your behalf, isn't aware of _half _the dangers out there!"

"Crime is very uncommon in the city," Alice counters weakly, her mind working furiously at the implications of Hamish's fierce opinions.

"It only needs to happen once for it to be too late," he argues back obstinately.

Alice studies him as he determinedly glares out the window at the passing scenes. Finally, she says, "Thank you, Hamish. For showing him how to protect us." She has to fist her left hand to keep it from settling over her stomach.

He gives her a bland smile. "I understand that the duty will never be mine, but I am not so low as to deny Hightopp the means to fulfilling his obligations to you, Alice."

"And I appreciate that." And, after she finishes with this bloody business meeting today, she'll be asking Tarrant why he hadn't mentioned this to her earlier!

Again the interior of the carriage is as silent as it can possibly get while in use on London's streets. After a few moments, the void of words seems to be too much for Hamish.

"I'm sorry for my behavior, Alice, when you arrived at the office."

She turns back to him, surprised. "It's fine," she tells him. "You'd just suffered a terrible shock. Looking back on it, I feel ashamed of myself: what if your father had been there and I'd given him heart failure!"

"Still," Hamish continues, easily as stubborn as she is herself. "I should not have... said those things... accused you of not finishing... things."

_Ah, the proposal. We come to it at last, _she muses. "Hamish, I _am _sorry for how I handled that. Truly, you'd deserved much better from me."

"Yes, I had," he agrees a bit pompously. Alice lets it go, however. "Just as you deserved better from me. In my defense, I can only say that I hadn't understood."

"Understood what?" her curiosity makes her ask.

Hamish fidgets with his gloves and inspects the head of his walking stick for blemishes. "I hadn't understood that your refusal had nothing to do with... a lack of merit on my part."

"No, of course it hadn't! Oh, Hamish..." She sighs. "I meant what I said then: you _are a _fine gentleman. Why do you think I even stepped up into that gazebo with you at all, knowing what was about to happen? I _knew _you were a fine gentleman. With many admirable qualities."

Hamish smiles. "Just not the ones you were looking for."

"Precisely."

He chuckles and Alice marvels at the sight of his mirth. It transforms him and suddenly she's sharing a carriage with a young, carefree, charming gentleman. The spoilt, petulant, snobbish boy-man she's grown so used to seeing is oddly... _absent._ At least for the moment.

"Thank you, Alice."

"My pleasure, Hamish."

The Hamish Ascot of old reappears, however, as the carriage slows and pulls over. Alice doesn't have to twitch aside the curtains to know they've arrived at the Metropolitan District Railway's head offices.

"Are you ready for this, Lady Hightopp?" he drawls, his hand on the polished door latch.

She considers mentioning the fact that she has a revolver in her leather case along with the precious project plan. In the end, however, all she says is: "Whenever you are, Lord Ascot." In some things, Alice assumes, ignorance truly is bliss.

This careless thought revisits Alice moments later when, upon being ushered into the meeting room to greet the railway's executive committee, she sees a face that makes her heart race and _shock-fear-dread-rage-urgency-__**bloodthirst!**_ scream down her heart line:

Alice finds herself face-to-despicable face with none other than Underland's former Viscount Valereth.

* * *

[End of Chapter 11]


	102. Book 3, Courage and Calm, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Twelve: Courage and Calm  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

The joint presentation Mr. Barlow and Mr. Greathead conduct regarding the tunnel shielding they had recently patented is going to be a success.

At least it seems likely at the moment.

Not that Alice is capable of truly paying attention.

She's pretty sure Hamish had botched the introduction she'd written for the engineers' speech and had mutilated her arguments in favor of the new system, but she can't be bothered to give a thought to that _now._ Not with that wretched wastrel _Valereth_ – oh, no, it's Mr. Valerey Rethbourne now! – sitting across the long table and three seats down.

Oh, what Alice wouldn't give for even _one _of her throwing knives. Right. Now!

But no. _No!_

_Kill him here and now and what happens to the negotiations? Kill him here and now, with no way to send his body back to Underland and no way to communicate with Mirana, and how will you know if you do Maevyn any good at all?_

Alice forces herself to take a deep breath. Calm. She must be **calm!**

But _knowing _she must and actually _managing _it are two very different things!

In response to her desperate, disjointed thoughts, Tarrant Reaches for her. She can feel him. The heart line warms, simmers. He's anxious. She's frustrated; oh, how she wishes should just _speak _to him with words! How can she possibly explain this situation? Here she is, in the same boardroom as Valereth with _no acceptable way of __**disposing of him ONCE AND FOR ALL!**_

**Calm, Alice!** she scolds herself as Tarrant's anxiety heats to true Worry.

She takes another deliberate breath. She thinks of the revolver – for the thirty-times-third time! – and forces herself to leave it where it is. She considers Calling Tarrant; she can imagine him at this precise moment, properly hatted and standing on the stoop of her mother's house, watching the cabs roll past, wavering, waffling, wondering if he ought to be hailing one and...!

Tarrant gives her a Pinch and Alice feels a measure of control return to her, meager though it is.

She knows he's worried, but she doesn't Call him. There is nothing he can do here except bury that finely crafted example of Irondirk excellence in Valereth's gut. And that would be the end of the negotiations. And perhaps the end of Underland.

But if she _doesn't _Call him... when he learns of Valereth's presence – here, in this room, at this meeting! – he will be furious! _Beyond _furious! _Bey-urious!_

Alice examines her options once more: it's not possible to withhold the fact that she's found Valereth from him – it wouldn't be safe to do so – which leaves her with telling him. If she tells him after the meeting has ended and Valereth has slunk off to wherever it is he'd come from... that would be... Bad. Very _Bad._ But if she Calls him _now..._ it could be Worse. Worse for Underland, anyway.

She fists her left hand. It's time to make a decision. The presentation is winding down which means luncheon will be starting soon and then there will be the panel discussion which might take thirty minutes or three hours depending on the young engineers' abilities to thwart concerns and counter troublesome questions. And with London's traffic being what it is, it might take nearly an hour for Tarrant to get here... If she's going to Call him, now would be the moment to do it.

She bites back a sigh.

It all comes down to Trust.

_You __**named **__him as your Champion,_ she reminds herself.

Indeed, she had. And now, when he _ought_ to be here, she will instead keep him away? How can he keep his promise to her and their child if she doesn't _allow _him to?

Their child...

Does Tarrant not have equal responsibility in protecting their child as Alice? Is that not one of his duties, as a father, just as it is hers, as a mother? Would she really deny him that?

But _nothing can be DONE!_

A voice that sounds very much like Tarrant's rebukes her: _He can __**be**__ there, Alice. That's not "nothing."_

No, she supposes it isn't. Still...

_Why are you a-gyrin' and a-gimblin' over this? Didn't you already have this discussion with Tarrant? __**Before**__ you left Underland?_

Yes, yes, she had. The subject had been screamed, shouted, discussed, and decided. Which leaves Alice with only one un-regrettable choice.

Before she can change her mind, Alice briefly closes her eyes, focuses, and Calls: _please-need-come-soon-fear-rage-hopeless-frustration-__**trust!**_

His Answer is immediate and final: _strength-love-resolution-__**now!**_

She's a little startled by how... simple that had been. How quickly he'd replied.

He's coming.

She just hopes her faith in him will be enough to keep the Worst from happening.

_You still underestimate him, you know._

Yes, she does.

_He's more than a mad hatter._

Yes, he is. It is that **more**_,_ however, that has her worried. Tarrant is a husband, a will-be-father, and a warrior of incomparable skill, resourcefulness, and passion. Despite the fact that the stain of murder does not mark him as it does Alice, she doubts he'll bother to restrain himself as he has in the past!

Alice answers his periodic, whisperingly soft inquiries with reassurance. She knows he's trying not to distract her, interrupt her meeting, but she knows he _needs _this connection. As does she.

_"Are ye still all righ'?"_ she can Feel against her heart.

_"I'm fine; please come,"_ she Sends. There is no impatience or irritation in these answering messages, not like there had been at the Maigh when – in the midst of her bath – Tarrant had Called her not once but twice! She'd been a bit offended then that he'd worried over what sort of trouble she might find at a _festival_ of all things! But now she can't find a single spark of aggravation within her at his overprotective tendencies. (A distinction she's sure he's noticed as well.) Now he calls every other minute and she cannot thank him enough to his diligence and attention.

Mr. Barlow concludes the presentation. There's a polite round of applause. A few questions are posed to clarify various points that had been mentioned in the presentation itself. And then luncheon is announced.

Downstairs, in a very fine dining room with high windows and lace curtains that somehow make the coal-stained dreary day beyond a bit more cheerful, Alice locates her seat, noticing that the name card on the place setting to her left is Hamish's and the name card to her right... is a Mr. Rethbourne's. Gritting her teeth to keep herself from screaming her frustration and rage at Tarrant, she allows one of the servers to seat her.

She's not foolish enough to ignore Valereth what with him sitting so very close, but she does not engage him in conversation. Or, at least, she tries not to...

"Although I must confess, I am confused as to why a new tunneling method is necessary. Has the current one not sufficiently met the expectations of the company and its investors?" Valereth directs the question to the table in general once the cold soup course has been cleared away.

Hamish counters with typical pomp and circumstance, "I believe Misters Barlow and Greathead will be kind enough to describe both the financial benefits and efficacy of their new method this afternoon."

A bit further down the table, both engineers nod in agreement, confirming Hamish's assumption.

"However," he continues, "those advantages aside, there are those who are concerned for the preservation of our historic city. The integrity of London's fine, upstanding neighborhoods must be considered."

"I agree most ardently on that point. London's fine institutions must be left untouched by progress," Valereth replies in a droll tone. "However, no one is suggesting constructing tunnels beneath the queen's palace!"

"Well. I should hope not!" Hamish blusters. "Still, it's the _idea,_ sir. If we can so easily destroy and replace on a whim, we fall into a practice that does not bode well for the future. As I've mentioned, it's a concern."

"Hm," Valereth counters. "I admit to wondering who these numerous concerned citizens are aside from yourself and the senior Lord Ascot. I was under the impression that many quite enjoyed the show of the demolition."

Alice cannot stop herself from addressing him directly: "And in the days of ancient Rome, the citizens gathered to watch _criminals_ and _traitors_ being eaten by _lions_ and _other __**beasts**_ for entertainment. Are you suggesting we might consider reinstituting those practices as well? For the enjoyment of the masses?"

In response to her barbed rejoinder, Valereth's lips curl into the semblance of a smile, however there is no mirth in the gesture at all. "What an interesting suggestion, madam."

"'Interesting' is not the word I would have chosen in this instance, sir."

His smile widens, grates on her nerves.

_"Alice? All righ'?"_ Tarrant queries again.

She composes her answer from uneasiness. _"I... I'm trying to be."_

His replying urgency is both gratifying and frightening. A rush of strength, of courage, fills her heart. She can clearly remember the times in her life when she's felt his strength so intimately: Frabjous Day – although how she'd managed it that time, without the aid of the heart line, she doesn't know! – and again, on several occasions, within Causwick Castle. Once more, Alice finds herself borrowing her husband's considerable muchness. And not a moment too soon.

Valereth turns his attention toward her and Alice curses herself for rising to the bait he'd set; she'd opened the air between them, so to speak, invited continued conversation...

He says in a flat, inflectionless tone, "I've been wondering when I'd be given the honor of meeting Charles Kingsleigh's daughter... I'm very gratified to have my patience rewarded at long last, Lady Hightopp."

"Have I kept you waiting, sir?" she answers, gathering herself and Tarrant's muchness for a battle of wits. "If that is the case, I must apologize for the... _oversight_ on my part." Oh, how she wishes she hadn't overlooked him all this time! How she wishes she'd let Bandy tear him _limb from limb on the battlefield!_

_"Alice?"_

She replies to Tarrant's frantic worry with forced calm flavored with anxiety: _"I can do this."_ And she _can_. She _will_. She _must._ Later, she will marvel at her reaction to this confrontation. Later, she will wonder when and how she had come to depend so completely on Tarrant. Later, she will muse if she's lost her ability to be a true Champion over the years of peace. But, in all fairness, Alice knows she no longer fights for only the White Queen and there is so much _more_ she can lose now besides her home, her friends, Underland... Her hand fists in her lap, over the linen napkin, in close proximity to her belly and the life within.

Tarrant's response to her determination is too jumbled for her to truly translate, but she imagines he must be trying to reassure her that he's drawing closer...

Valereth continues, "Ah, it so pleases me to hear your reassurance, madam, that you would not have kept me waiting _intentionally_. However, I have found that many things are all the sweeter for the wait one must endure beforehand."

"And what might one of those things be, sir?"

He appears to consider his response carefully. Alice doesn't believe the display for a moment: she _knows _this man, had struggled under the oppressive weight of his iron control and chilling ambition, had escaped him, had turned against him, had outwitted him. She knows that _this _fight – on _this _battlefield (the city of London) – will be a hundred times harder to win than the last. Valereth is not a man who falls flat on his face and yet does _not _take careful notice of the errors that had lead him to that ignominious position. She knows he's studied his strategy, mastered his mistakes, become a pupil of perfection. His plan, whatever it is now, is as close to unconquerable as is possible.

_I'm __**still**__ undefeated,_ she reminds herself.

Still, that's no reason to relax her guard.

She waits for his answer: What is best enjoyed after a long, arduous wait?

And, his dark eyes gleaming maliciously, he says in a tone carefully voided of emotion, "Oysters. Yes, one mustn't... _harvest_ them before it's advantageous to do so."

Alice narrows her eyes. _Oysters or a certain Oshtyer?_ she doesn't ask. She doesn't have to. She suddenly suspects that she's conversing with a murderer at this very moment. The fact that, were they to both reach for the salt at the same moment, their elbows would brush is not a comforting one.

She says, "I'm sure I wouldn't know. But I shall keep you in mind, sir, should I come across that particular issue in the future." Is there any point in trying to deny her knowledge of Oshtyer's sudden return to Underland? She doesn't know, but it can't hurt to try...

"I doubt you will," he answers, his lips curling into a brief, satisfied sneer. "I'm sure a lady of your considerable talents would have already realized that."

With those two obscure sentences, she _knows _it had been Valereth who had inflicted that knife wound on Oshtyer's chest. Had perhaps even pushed the man down the hole and back to Underland. Why? But, no, that thought must be considered _later!_

Alice answers as best she can: "Then I should think we won't meet again."

"But, I'm sure we will, madam. After all, I've merely named _one _of the finer things best savored slowly." He inclines his head in her direction, a gesture of respect if not for the decidedly _nasty_ grin curling his thin lips. "I'm sure there will be an occasion for me to introduce you to _one _more. At the very least."

"I shall be on my guard until then," she replies, unable to choke back the steely quality of her tone. "But, a man of _your _disposition should not discount the possibility that _I _may yet teach _you_ my own answer to that conundrum."

His eyebrows arch and he smiles, conceding the war of words... for now. "I shall look forward to it, Lady Hightopp."

Alice leans to the side as a server places the next dish in front of her. She can smell it, see it, but it doesn't seem real even though her stomach rolls in response to it. She's on the verge of excusing herself from the table when Tarrant Speaks to her again. This time the prevailing emotion is satisfaction.

She struggles not to sigh in relief. She waits as Tarrant wrestles with impatience and then a server leans between her and Valereth.

"Lady Hightopp?"

"Yes?"

He offers her a small, folded note upon a tray. "From a... gentlemen who has just arrived."

"Thank you." She takes the note, flicks it open and reads the single line that had been hastily scribbled on the fine stationary:

_I'm here._

Alice folds the note and nods to the server.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I must see to this. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen?" she murmurs at her dining companions. Alice doesn't wait for their permission. She's out of her seat and out of the room before they can reply. She struggles not to pick up her skirts and run toward the parlor, where visitors of the railway office are accommodated until they can be seen.

_Now _Alice wonders at her sudden and strong reaction to discovering the very man she and Tarrant would have been hunting had the fate of Underland not demanded their complete attention. She tries to justify her reaction: she had not expected Valereth to be an active member of the Subway committee; she had not anticipated having to be civil to him; she had not imagined having to sit in such close proximity to the man; she had not anticipated the possibility that he'd intended to _murder _and then had _tossed _Oshtyer down the hole and back to Underland. And, as for his reasons for doing that, for admitting to it, and for hinting that he's been waiting for her... No, Alice's initial deductions in response to _that _information are not encouraging _at all!_

"Alice!" Tarrant whispers, stopping in mid-pace as she slides open the door.

She manages to close it behind her before he sweeps her into his arms. "Tell me," he says and his tone is Commanding.

She does: "Valereth is here."

His reaction is as disturbing as she'd anticipated. "_Here?_ _Nauw?_"

Alice tells her husband, the man who is her Champion, "Yes. He's a member of the committee. In charge of logistics, I believe."

She doubts Tarrant had even heard that last bit of information. She doubts he'd heard _anything_ past the word "yes."

"**Where is he?**"

Alice takes in the furious orange of his irises, the blackening eyelids and shadows beneath his eyes, and grasps his upper arms. "_Stop_," she replies in a firm, low voice. "You _can't._ _I _can't."

"**Why. Not?**"

Alice confronts the utter _fury _in her husband's eyes and struggles to keep _both _him and herself calm. She places her hand over the place where she knows his Heart Mark to be and says, "We're so close to getting the committee to agree to the new tunneling method. We can't throw that away now. _Please..._"

She watches as he raises his hands to grasp hers, closes his burning eyes and takes a deep breath.

"Of course. Of course. You are entirely correct, Alice," he lisps.

Her elation at his calm, controlled reply is dashed, however, when he frowns suddenly. Tarrant opens his eyes, but the verdant green she'd been hoping for is still a distant dream. He studies her and she can _see _his mind working.

"Ye di'nae Call me righ'away," he states. His eyes burn through yellow and approach orange again.

"I know," she answers. Really, what else can she say to the truth? "It won't happen again." And because he can read the Promise she offers him in her open expression, his anger and frustration and fury subside.

"Bu' ye _did _Call me," he continues, his voice softening with forgiveness.

"I promised I would," she replies.

And before she can object, he leans down and kisses her soundly on the lips. "Thank you, my Alice."

She shakes her head. "I named you my Champion," she replies on a breath, wary of who might be on the other side of the thin doors, listening. "And I meant it. I'm just sorry there's nothing to be done at the moment."

"There's plenty to be done," he argues, brushing his fingertips through her hair. "Watching, waiting, listening..." At this point, he spears her with a meaningful look.

She nods. "I will Tell you _immediately _if he behaves in a suspicious manner."

_Like hinting at murder and mayhem? _In response to the reminder, Alice bites her lip and, of course, Tarrant notices. His fingers tighten around her gloved hands.

"Tell me," he directs.

She shakes her head. "Not here. Later. I promise I will. _Later._" This is not the Place to be delving into Valereth's motives, machinations, and misdeeds.

"Has he threatened you?" he whispers, cutting to the heart of the matter.

"No." She forces herself not to add to that, to negate the reassurance with too much justification.

Tarrant relaxes. Marginally. "I cannae accompany you," he burrs out of frustration. "Bu' tell me where ye'll be so I can find ye as hastenly as possible, should ye call f'r me."

Alice describes the locations of the dining room and the boardroom. "Tarrant..." she says, struggles for words, strives to describe how infuriated she is that she cannot fulfill her duties as Queen's Champion today and _be done with it all!_

Still holding her hands in his own, he lays them against his chest, pressing her palms against his jacket. Even through all the layers of fabric she thinks she can feel his warmth, the rhythm of his heartbeats...

"Aye?"

She takes a deep breath. "I don't... I don't like feeling scared, powerless, frustrated."

His expression softens despite the bright, anxious peridot green of his eyes. "I know."

Yes, she imagines he does. Every time she's picked up a sword in the name of the queen, she imagines _this _is how he'd felt. Feeling utterly wretched, Alice blinks back sudden tears.

Tarrant gently tilts her face up to his with a gloved knuckle. "Alice, _my _Alice, you _are _a Champion... an' I wouldnae change tha' f'r anythin'."

She smiles, overwhelmed. He leans down again, brushes a kiss against her cheek and Alice leans into the touch. The moment is interrupted, however, by the sound of the door sliding open. Luckily, the uninvited guest is merely Hamish.

"Alice, what in the world...?" Hamish stops short at the sight of Tarrant in the parlor. Alice can see the confusion and curiosity in his blue eyes, but he manfully refrains from demanding an explanation. Instead, he announces, "Lunch is nearly over. Will you be returning to the meeting or shall I make your excuses?"

"I'll be there. Just one more moment, please, Hamish."

"Very well." He nods in Tarrant's direction. "Hightopp."

"Ascot."

Alice watches him turn on his heel and quit the room. "That reminds me: I'm curious as to how you managed to charm Hamish of all people..." _Is there anyone he __**can't **__charm?_

Lady Ascot comes to mind.

"I promise to explain in detail as soon as circumstances permit."

"I'll hold you to that."

"Ye b'careful, Alice. I'll b'expectin' ye teh b'fully capable o' holdin' me teh more th'n jus' an expl'nation later."

"I will."

She does. The latter half of the meeting goes as she'd expected: budget concerns and time schedules are smartly addressed and the committee adjourns with the intention of reviewing the complete report provided by the young and enterprising engineers. Alice shakes hands and imparts Lord Ascot's hopes and best wishes for a more advantageous direction in the construction of the Earl's Court tunnel and station.

Alice is the first to excuse herself. She glances at Hamish, who nods once, agreeing to be his father's eyes and ears in her stead. After all, she doubts she'll be invited into the drawing room for cigars and brandy, where Serious discussions are inevitably held. Despite the desire to see this thing through to the end, to the moment when an agreement is reached and a contract signed, Alice knows that will not be possible. Not for a woman. Not in _this _World. Her role in this business is nearly over. Were the circumstances different, she might have actually let that bother her.

Not now, however.

Tarrant meets her in the hall as she opens the door and escorts her from the building. He hails a cab, helps her into it, and wraps her up in his arms. Alice takes his hand and, wordlessly, presses it over her stomach beneath her own. For a long moment, neither of them speaks.

"I wish we could have him followed," she muses aloud.

Tarrant shakes his head and presses his cheek against the top of her hat. "He won't be going anywhere. He's built a life here. He'll fight for it."

Alice leans away and looks up at him. His yellow-green eyes are narrowed as he stares at the ribbons of light that sway with the imperfectly drawn curtains.

"You're right; he's not going anywhere, but not for that reason..."

"What did he say to you?"

Now that Alice has Tarrant's undivided attention and they're surrounded by convenient noise – rather than a silent house wherein her mother or those under her employ might be listening – Alice says: "I believe he injured Oshtyer and sent him down the hole himself."

"And?" he prompts when she pauses to give him a moment to consider the implications.

"And I can't help thinking how _easy _it was to get us to come here: the jacket with the London tailor's mark, the quid in Oshtyer's pocket..." She wonders about the gun. Why would Valereth have permitted them a gun from the outset of this game?

Tarrant's arm tightens. "And?"

Alice wishes she could soothe his impatience and worry in this instance, but she finds herself afflicted with the same emotions. "And he did not seem surprised to see me. Or even to see me _there._ At the meeting. He hinted that... he's been waiting for our arrival."

For a long moment, Tarrant's body is tense, a solid figure carved from stone wrapped around her.

Finally, he states, "The bastard planned this. All of it."

"It would seem so. And he's in favor of continuing to use dynamite in the construction of future underground lines."

Tarrant nods. "I expect he would be." He pauses. She watches his Adam's apple bob as he swallows. "Alice..."

"I know." Her hands tighten on his arm and thigh. "I _know._"

Their quest has become... no, has _twisted _into so much more. Now they realize they're playing a game – a deadly game – with a man who has masterfully drawn them into a labyrinth of his own design.

And they have only two options open to them: flee to another, safer, part of Upland, _or_ fight their way through, play by his rules, master his game.

But, in the end, Alice knows there _is __**no**__ choice:_

There will be no retreat to Underland, for they have chosen exile in the hopes that they might change the future, save their world. Even now, with Valereth actively working to destroy the world Down There, they cannot even withdraw to the British countryside. They must stay. They must fight. And they must quickly find a way to win... before the maze becomes too convoluted and leads them to the end that Valereth has no doubt prepared for them with painstaking attention to detail.

Yes, if things go the way Valereth hopes for, Alice will no longer be a Champion for Underland. And then there will be nothing standing in the man's way. Nothing to stop him from wreaking destruction and vengeance upon the lands and people who have cursed him to the half-life of exile.

Alice shivers.

Tarrant's arms tighten.

They don't speak of Valereth or his plans again. They don't have to. They're both well aware of what his goals are and what he will do to accomplish them. They're both well aware that there is nothing to be done except try to stop him. They're both well aware that they've trapped themselves Up Here and there is no way out... except Through.

* * *

[End of Chapter 12: Scene 1 of 2]


	103. Book 3, Courage and Calm, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Twelve: Courage and Calm  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

The remaining days of the week are utterly nerve-wracking in their insufferable tedium. Alice resents being forced to apply valuable time and resources to preparing for the soiree she'd advised Ascot to host and regrets the suggestion _most _heartedly now!

"Alice is coming with us," Tarrant announces to Hamish when the man shows up to escort him to a reputable gentleman's tailor.

"Hightopp, you won't need your wife to help you choose fabrics. I assure you the man I use has the latest fashions well in hand."

"She's coming with us, Ascot." And Alice has to hide a smile: _that _tone could only belong to The Hightopp. She finds it a rather satisfying experience to be meeting him at long last.

At the tailor's Alice relinquishes the pounds and shillings required in payment for Tarrant's evening wear and rush service. In silence, she regards a display of bland top hats as Tarrant replaces his vest and jacket once the measurements have been taken and despairs at their dwindling funds. There's _no_ possibility of having her own dress made (and most especially not in the few days that remain before the soiree!) with the money that remains. In fact, she's still not sure how long she and Tarrant will be staying in London nor what sorts of resources they'll have to use against Valereth or what those might cost! In the end, there's only one thing she can do: Alice appeals to Margaret for a dress. Luckily, her sister comes through for her.

"Alice, are you _sure _you wouldn't rather have your own dress made?" Margaret checks. "I would be happy to put it on my account at Madame Millister's..."

Alice hides a cringe at the thought. No, if she goes to a London tailor's she'll end up trussed up in a corset and stockings and while she _might _find the fortitude to suffer through an evening in stockings, she is _not _subjecting the child she carries to a corset!

"I'm sure. I just hope you don't want the gown back. I'm afraid it'll be altered beyond recognition by the time we're done with it."

"We?"

Oh, botheration! She hadn't meant to let _that _slip! Since her return, she's managed to keep Tarrant's means of earning an income out of the conversations she has had with her mother and sister. Thus far, she's let everyone assume that he supports the both of them through his lands and other family holdings, like the lords of Britain do. Now, however...

Alice does her best to salvage the situation with misdirecting truths: "I meant the tailor, of course." Which Tarrant is! "I'll just take it into town –" Where her mother lives! "– to have it altered and..."

Margaret narrows her eyes and Alice curses her childhood tendency toward telling creative truths. "No, you didn't," her sister accuses. "Who's going to help you with this dress, Alice?"

She sighs. "Tarrant," she admits, giving up. Hopefully, they won't have to remain in London too much longer... "He's a milliner by trade."

"Oh. I... see." Margaret's stiff tone speaks far more eloquently than any words could have. "Well. I imagine his skills will come in quite useful in this instance."

Alice has no illusions about her mother remaining uninformed of this fact, so she doesn't hesitate to show Tarrant to the sewing room in her mother's house where she puts on the too-large, too-long gown and models it for him later that evening.

Tarrant examines the piece with a critical eye. "Well, the color's not a total loss," he says referring to the soft violet hue. Unfortunately, that's the _only _complimentary comment he pays the garment. Alice can't help thinking that it's a good thing the neckline manages to cover the Heart Mark, but lets the observation go unvoiced.

"I'm sorry," she says, brushing his hair back over his shoulder as he kneels to get a better look at the stitching at the waist of the gown. "I know it's a lot of work for you. If we had more time..." _And more money..._

Tarrant smiles up at her. "Don't be sorry, my Alice. Do you have any idea how long I've wanted to make you a dress? Admittedly, this is not how I'd envisioned going about doing so, but it _has _been on my mind for... a long time."

Alice bites back another apology – how many times has her stubborn self-reliance hurt him in all their years of marriage? – and summons a smile. "First hats, now dresses? What's next, Hatter? My very own chaise lounge?"

He giggles. "Don't be silly, Alice. If it's furniture you desire, I shall have to commission something from the Setteesons!"

Alice tilts her head to the side and squints. "Would Master Setteeson be the one with the blond beard and the eye patch?"

"Yes, he would."

"Is it a very dangerous occupation? Furniture making?"

"Not at all!"

"Then how did he lose his eye?"

"His eye? Well, as far as I know, he still has both of them!"

"But the eye patch...?"

Tarrant shakes his head. "The fool thinks it makes him look roguish."

"Hm," Alice replies, considering. "The button nose and that round belly of his tend to ruin the effect, I think."

Tarrant giggles. "As do I, my Alice." He places his hands on her hips and, clearing his throat, asks, "Now, what are your requests with regards to this spiritless garment?"

"No corset."

"Well," he replies, his hands moving over her lower stomach, "_that _goes without saying."

"Then do as you will with it," Alice replies and is rewarded with a bright grin and an even brighter pair of green eyes.

"And I shall!" he promises.

Alice keeps him company as he snips and sews. She sits on the other side of the wide sewing table dressed only in her underwear and a dressing gown she'd snuck out of her old room. She wiggles her ankles in time with his humming and, occasionally teaches him a song from her own childhood. They've moved on to "Twinkle Twinkle Little Bat" before Tarrant declares the dress ready for another fitting.

She dons it again and lets Tarrant fuss a bit more over the improvements to it.

"Could use a bit of embroidering here and here," he mumbles. "Ribbon trimming..." Alice holds various spools of thread and bits of ribbons that he'd unearthed from the depths of the sewing cabinet and smiles as he works out the conundrum that the dress presents to him. Finally, his plan of action set, Tarrant empties her hands and, kneeling, begins fiddling with the too-long hem.

Perhaps, considering Valereth's appearance and the threat he presents, Alice shouldn't be enjoying something so frivolous as watching Tarrant tear apart and remake a dress that had probably cost Lowell a tidy sum. But, considering the fact that it's _Lowell's _money they're snubbing, perhaps Alice _ought _to enjoy the experience!

Her bare fingers move through his hair when he's kneeling within reach and he tilts his head into her touch. She wonders if he does so on purpose or if it's an unconscious gesture. Her mind is occupied with this highly important debate when, suddenly, the door opens.

"What on Earth... Alice? What are you doing in here? And... Tarrant?"

"Good evening, mother," Alice replies for both of them. "Is it time for dinner already?"

Her mother ignores the question and gapes at Tarrant who is still kneeling, although no longer pinning away at the hem of the dress. "Tarrant, what _are _you doing?"

He reaches up to remove the pins from between his lips and Helen gasps.

"Your hand!" Rushing forward, she frets, "Here! Let me see that! Oh, _dear!_ You're going to bleed all over that dress! How did you manage to do that to your... self..."

Tarrant looks up at Alice just as she looks down at him. Helen stands with Tarrant's left hand in her grasp, gaping at the blood-red heart line stretching across his skin.

"What... is this?"

Alice pulls her left arm behind her back as unobtrusively as possible. Oh, the _one time _they'd taken their gloves off outside their room would be the _one time _her mother would barge in and see...!

"Mother, it's fine. I'm sure I mentioned that the... customs are different where Tarrant comes from."

"But... this..."

"Tattoo, mother," Alice supplies, her heart breaking at the gross over-simplification. "Don't worry; no one else has seen it. Tarrant has been very careful."

Her mother allows Tarrant to remove his hand from her grasp. Self consciously, he tucks it behind his back and, moving to stand in front of Alice's left side, clears his throat. "It's my understanding," he lisps a bit desperately, "that Margaret has given Alice this dress for the Ascots' soiree. I was merely attempting to make it suit Alice's tastes."

Despite the answer to Helen's original question, Alice's mother doesn't appear to take any interest in it or Tarrant's role in the proceedings. "Yes," she replies slowly. "You've always worn gloves, haven't you?" And then the Unthinkable happens: Helen focuses her shrewd, blue eyes on Alice. "As have you!"

Tarrant does an admirable job of discreetly blocking Helen from grabbing her daughter's arm, but Alice recognizes the futility of the exercise from the outset.

_"Stop,"_ she Sends along the heart line and, laying a hand on his arm, gently holds him still. Alice steps out from behind him and, with a sigh, extends her left arm.

"Yes, I have one, too."

Helen gapes at the dark blue heart line and pushes the flared, violet lace up to Alice's elbow, where the fitted sleeve ends and the trimming begins. "Dear Lord..." she gasps. Alice winces as her horrified gaze lifts from the twisting design. "How far does this... this... _abomination __**reach, ALICE?"**_

"Mother! Stop it!" Alice pulls her arm out of her mother's grasp.

"Did _he _make you do that to yourself?"

"No, Tarrant has _never_ forced me to do a single thing!" Alice ignores his guilty fidget; after seven years he should have _already_ _forgiven himself _for initiating the Thrice a-Vow without her consent! "This was _my choice_."

"Your choice," Helen echoes. "Of course it was. Only you would so foolishly defile your body with something so outrageous!"

"How is this any different from a wedding ring, mother? Those are also meant to be permanent, are they not?"

Her mother throws up her hands. "I don't know why I bother to try to reason with you! You've _never _paid attention to the conventions that don't fit your preferences. Do as you will. Have ink work done on your face, if you like! It's not as if I'll be able to stop you!"

Alice watches her mother storm out of the room. Tarrant's hands settle on her shoulders and she leans back against his chest.

"Bloody bulloghin' brangergain!" she sighs.

"I'm so very, _very _sorry, Alice," he whispers, kissing her ear. "Perhaps if we explain..."

"Explain that you're a hatter by trade? Half-mad to boot? That without this mark hat-making would eventually rot your mind? That I bound myself to you knowingly, despite that? That our hearts are tied each to the other for _all time?_" Alice takes a deep breath. "Yes, I'm sure that would make things much better. Let's lay our secrets bare because, of course, my mother will be _willing _to believe in the magic of a place she has no idea exists at all!"

"Alice..."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean that. I..."

Tarrant circles around to stand in front of her. His hands are warm on her arms. He waits for her explanation.

"I just... this isn't a good time for more complications. I'd hoped we could get through this without..." Alice shakes her head. "Never mind. We'll wear our gloves and she'll pretend she'd never seen our heart lines and everything will be... fine. We won't be staying much longer anyway. Any day now, Mirana will open the mirror and we'll be able to go home." Alice doesn't add that the journey home will only be possible with Valereth in their custody. She doesn't have to. She knows that Tarrant understands.

"Alice, my Raven," he murmurs against her ear. He collects her hand and presses it over his Heart Mark. "My Calm."

She leans her forehead against his shoulder and fights back tears. Yes, that four-pointed star on his chest is the symbol of all that she Gives to him through the heart line: calm and control.

She reaches for his hand and places his palm against the somewhat wobbly ellipse that decorates her chest.

"Tarrant, my Writing Desk," she replies, her lips brushing his throat. "My Courage." Yes, her courage and muchness and more.

She thinks of her mother, the soiree, the subway, Valereth and his nefarious plans... And Alice has the distinct feeling that both she and Tarrant are going to be in desperate need of these qualities before all of this is finally over.

* * *

Notes:

1. With regards to the Heart Marks, please don't feel discouraged from your own interpretation! For the purposes of the coming chapters I've merely pointed out ONE FACET of the marks! That being: the Heart Marks are (at least _in part_) the manifestation of what each partner brings to the bond and how they support each other. In my mind (which should **not** be taken as an authority on the subject, despite me being the author!) the four-pointed star symbolizes order and calm. The fact that it's a _star _rather than a _square _hints at creativity and curiosity. As for the ellipse: while a circle would symbolize perfection or the ways of nature or the organic world, an ellipse is just a bit... off-center, which I think reflects the eccentricities of Tarrant's uncorrupted mind. (Uncorrupted by greed and stereotypes and such.) Alice's Heart Mark is further described as an imperfect ellipse; this is due to Tarrant's madness. But, nonetheless, a round shape symbolizes strength, a shield, and enduring courage, and those are the things Tarrant gives to his Alice.

* * *

[End of Chapter 12]


	104. Book 3, Unbearable Circumstances, 1 of 2

**NOTE: **This chapter is rated**_ M _**for**_ violence, gore, _**and**_ death._**

The next few installments are fairly intense, just for your information. There are 5 scenes in all that deal with the coming Event, so if the end of this scene seems a bit... abrupt, rest assured, More is on the way. (^_~)**_  
_**

* * *

_**Chapter Thirteen: Unbearable Circumstances  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

The Ascots' country estate illuminates the night, glowing like a beacon of salvation and purity against the shadows of the distant forests and expansive lawn. Once upon a time, Alice would have thought it a lovely sight. Now, she can only think of Mamoreal, of the natural luminosity of the stone and the sweetness of the ever-blossoming cherry trees.

"Alice?"

She struggles with her heartache. "I'm sorry. I'm just... homesick, I suppose." She chuckles dryly. "And over-emotional."

Tarrant's arms are warm around her and his chest solid against her shoulder. The Kingsleigh carriage rolls slowly up the drive, conforming to the orderly line of similar vehicles waiting to release their occupants to the brightly lit main entrance of the grand house. She pets the sleeve of his new jacket.

"I'm sorry about the tailcoat and... other things," she murmurs, hating the fact that she has allowed this World to make Tarrant even more uncomfortable, that he's had to acquiesce to these pointless and nonsensical customs. At least they'd managed to get the tailor to leave a bit of give in the coat so that Tarrant wouldn't have to go without the knife, especially at a function where they expect Valereth to be present.

"It's only for one evening, Alice. I will survive."

She smiles. "Thank you for the dress."

"'Twas my pleasure, Alice."

She knows it had been. Even after her mother had barged in and discovered their heart lines, Tarrant had been unable to dwell on the sudden discord between themselves and their hostess. He'd lost himself in something familiar and soothing and Alice had allowed herself to become lost with him. It had been a relief to escape their worries for even a few hours. But Alice senses there's more to it than just that; they are that much closer to returning _home._

"I suspect the committee will announce their decision tonight," Alice whispers. "One way or another, we'll know if our plan has worked."

Tarrant shakes his head. "_Your_ plan, Champion Alice."

"_Our _plan," she insists. "You haven't forgotten that I couldn't have done any of this without you, have you?"

He presses his lips to her hair and Alice feels his mouth curve into a smile against her scalp. "It's nearly finished, isn't it, Raven," he muses.

"Yes." And then all they'll have to do is figure out what to do with Valereth until they're able to travel home through the mirrors.

At the reminder, Alice wonders how Maevyn is, if the little jabberwocky is still fighting the sickness, if Mirana has found a way to help the creature through the healing arts and alchemy. If Krystoval has permitted it.

"You're worrying," Tarrant observes. "I can feel it, you know. Your thoughts are too heavy and too fast for regular Alice thoughts."

She sighs but doesn't deny it. And then the carriage is drifting to a halt in front of the manor entrance. Alice sits up and moves to the opposite bench, where she picks up her father's black satin top hat and settles it on Tarrant's head.

She smiles at the picture he makes. Tarrant smiles back.

"No hat?" she'd asked that afternoon over tea.

"I think not," he'd replied, glancing at his distinctive hat where it had been keeping Alice's company. "The very thought of one of those unremarkable, lifeless creations in the shops is..."

"And what about a hat worn by a man who often believed in as many as six impossible things before breakfast?" she'd wondered aloud.

Tarrant had been surprised, but had given her a delighted, gap-toothed grin. "I would be honored to wear the former hat of such a saganistute man, my Alice."

Looking at her husband now, in the moment before the carriage doors are opened for them, Alice says, "You give life to that hat again. Thank you for wearing it for me."

"My Alice," he replies, reaching for her gloved hands. "You've never asked me to wear anything for you before. Not even my clan colors." He brushes a kiss across her knuckles and lingers over the silver ring she still – always! – wears on her left hand. "Ye ken I'd be proud teh wear whate'er ye'd like."

She shivers. "I'll keep that in mind."

And then there's a smart rap on the door – a warning – before the brass handle is turned and suddenly, Alice is being guided out and into the light. Tarrant steps out and stops just behind her. He offers his arm with an easy motion. She smiles at him, his borrowed walking stick in hand and hat tilted rakishly on his head. She's struck suddenly by the utter masculine beauty of him.

Uncaring of the next carriage pulling up behind them, Alice says, "I'd say you've never looked more handsome, except I'm sure you have."

He beams. "Forgetting me, Alice? Naughty."

She laughs and he guides her toward the stairs. In the moment before they pass through the open doorway, Tarrant leans toward her ear and whispers, "For certainly, _I _shall never forget how entrancing you look tonight, my Alice."

"And have I entranced you, my lord?" she teases back.

"Why do you think I call you _my Alice?_"

"Hm. Would it be because your every thought – and even your very being – is bent upon my every whim and happiness?"

His smile is brief and brilliant, but then he schools his expression into one of grave sincerity. "It would. Utterly, my Alice. There is no me without you."

Oh, what she wouldn't give for a private moment to thank him _properly _for those heart-melting words, for the Truth of them she can see in his eyes and Feel from his heart. The only reply she can give him is a silent one:

_Love-mine-want-need-yours-always-devotion-forever._

His breath catches in his throat.

"I beg your pardon, sir. Your invitation?"

Alice startles. "Oh! I beg your pardon." She opens her small handbag and, reaching around the revolver she still carries with her everywhere, removes the envelope that displays the Ascot crest.

"Very good, madam." The doorman accepts the invitation with a bow and then escorts them within. At the entrance to the ballroom, Tarrant relinquishes his hat and walking stick. Alice clutches his arm and endures the announcement of their names. Thankfully, they don't hover on the threshold for very long.

"Alice! Tarrant! How good of you to come! And on time," Lord Ascot enthuses from a nearby table.

"Good evening, sir. You do that suit a good turn," Alice compliments him. "And I shall have to find your wife to praise her efforts; this is a truly lovely event!"

With the pleasantries and handshake with Tarrant taken care of, Lord Ascot motions Alice closer with a crooked finger. "Your plan is working perfectly, my dear." Townsend nods inconspicuously in the direction of several MDR men who are entertaining the attentions of lords and ladies with their chests noticeably puffed up.

"They certainly look amiable, sir," she agrees on a laugh.

"That they do. We shall see an end to this dynamite business before the evening is out. You can count on that!"

"I look forward to it!"

Townsend nods. Then, directing his attention over Alice's shoulder (which is easy to do as she's still leaning down), he demands of Tarrant, "Now, get your lady out there and show me how they dance in your country, Lord Hightopp!"

"With pleasure, sir."

And it is. For the first time in memory, Alice actually _enjoys _a dance at an Upland event. She follows Tarrant's lead, not caring that their Underlandian waltz draws puzzled looks. They follow the music and Alice finds herself laughing at the thought of _creating _a tiny whirlwind of Underland here between the two of them with nothing more than their arms and feet and a bit of breeze.

It appears hats and dresses aren't the only things her husband is capable of crafting masterfully on a moment's notice.

"Are you less homesick now, my Alice?" he murmurs, stepping closer and gently spinning both of them around.

"Much less. Thank you."

"It's my pleasure."

"And," she can't resist wondering aloud, "just how far would you go for your wife's pleasure?"

"To the ends of both Worlds, my Alice."

"And would you kill Time again?"

"Without a second thought!"

"And how would you address one of her mad whims?"

"With madness of my own, of course!"

Alice laughs. Uncaring of the crush of dancers around them, she inquires, "How is it possible I can love you more every day when I'm _sure_ that I'd reached the pinnacle of such a phenomenon the day before?"

She feels Tarrant's heart skip a beat. "Perhaps your heart grows larger with each day to accommodate a bit more?" he replies softly.

"It must be," she agrees. And then tilts her head to the side and smiles, "How is it you so quickly found an answer to my riddle, Raven?"

On a whisper, he confides, "I've been experiencing the same phenomenon myself."

"For very long?"

"Only ten years, approximately."

Alice counters, "And what do you think our prospects are for the next ten?"

"Promising," he quickly answers. "Our prospects are very promising, my Alice." He doesn't have to glance down toward her belly – only just recently beginning to change, to curve outward by the tiniest increment of measurement – for her to read his Mind.

Alice is about to remind him that they still haven't thought of names yet, when Reality slams into her, making her stumble and forcing Tarrant to hold her up while dodging a waltzing couple.

"What is it?"

"Valereth's just arrived," she murmurs, trying not to stare over his shoulder at the entrance to the ballroom. Alice echoes Tarrant's frustrated breath.

"Perhaps we should address the refreshments table? We haven't introduced ourselves properly yet," he suggests. And, because it will give them a good excuse to stand around watching the other guests (and one in particular!), Alice agrees.

They ignore the stares and sniffs and scandal-laced whispering that follows in their wake: yes, Alice knows her dress is not _conventionally _fashionable; yes, she knows her husband's hair is outrageously long and hers startlingly short; yes, she knows they hadn't managed a _proper _waltz. Sighing, she wonders why they'd even bothered to leave their hats at home or procure a new suit for Tarrant.

Lord Ascot is a rare breed of man, indeed, for no one else in this room will give them the time of day due to their Otherness.

Tarrant brushes a curl behind her ear. "Stop," he whispers. "Let them think what they will."

And, summoning a determined smile, she does.

Tarrant fills a plate for both of them and she collects a glass of champagne, not for drinking – no, the very _thought _of fermented beverages makes her stomach churn, Himoha flower or no – but for something to hold and, if necessary, something to throw. Her lips curve as she remembers dousing those two blustering fellows at the Wooing Rites Banquet.

Tarrant remembers as well.

With a giggle, he gently lays a hand over her wrist. "Now, Alice, as much as I would _love _to see how that rude fellow over there would suit –" Tarrant glances down at the flute in her hand. "– yellow Wassailin..."

"I know. There's nothing to stop me from imagining it, though."

"Nor me!" He holds out the dish. "Something to..." He frowns at the collection of unfamiliar appetizers. "... eat? Well, presumably."

"You presume correctly," Alice assures him, lifting a dainty fork and stabbing a spinach puff. When her stomach doesn't object to the smell of it, she nibbles a corner and scans the crowd for their wayward Underlandian.

"Speaking to the older gentleman with the handlebar mustache and utterly unimaginatively tied cravat," Tarrant tells her, poking a dollop of pâté with his own fork. Alice offers him the spinach puff.

"Little steps, love," she tells him. "Save that one for when you're feeling more daring."

He giggles. "I can always count on you, my Alice. Even for introducing me to Upland soiree foodstuffs."

"I'm happy to help. My assistance is especially invaluable when it comes to dealing with maypoles," she mutters.

Tarrant snorts and cackles, drawing more attention to them, but Alice doesn't care. "Do you think Thackery might be able to make spinach puffs for us? Or should I ask for the recipe?" she says, coming to his rescue.

He calms and samples the pastry, his eyes widening slightly as his low expectations are more than exceeded. "Not bad," he agrees. "I suspect a recipe won't be required. It's a relatively straightforward sort of taste to describe, isn't it?"

"True." And a recipe would probably only confuse the poor hare, what with the ingredients being listed before the actual cooking preparation... It still escapes Alice how food in Underland can be passed around before being cut, cooked before the ingredients have been prepared...

They don't dance again. They poke at the edibles on the plate, Alice with restless energy and Tarrant with blatant suspicion, as they track Valereth's movements in the room. The evening wears on and then as the orchestra strikes up the tune for the quadrille, Alice watches as Hamish gathers up the subway committee members and escorts them toward the ballroom doors.

"Alice, should you be going with them?"

She shakes her head. "They'll be going to the _gentlemen's _parlor. To drink and smoke and talk business." And even if the smell weren't capable of making her gag, she wouldn't be all that enthusiastic about gaining entrance.

They watch as their quarry follows the younger Lord Ascot's lead. Alice scans the crowd for Townsend but, not finding him, assumes his son must have already helped him into the drawing room to greet the guests.

"It's happening now, isn't it?" Tarrant asks quietly.

"Yes. Lord Ascot is determined to resolve this tonight." She smiles. "And when he's made up his mind, there's no other possible outcome."

Tarrant reaches for her hand and squeezes her fingers. He sighs and Alice hears the sound of relief. Even her heart line seems quieter, lighter than it has in weeks. Alice can't help but agree with him: one impossible problem settled. And only one more to be addressed: Valereth. Not that Alice imagaines for _one _instant that the blighter will cooperate with them. Or be civil. No, at the luncheon, the air between them had been heavy with malice. He is Planning something. And Alice Knows neither she nor Tarrant will like it. No, not at all.

She frowns. "Tarrant..."

"Yes?"

A trickle of Anxiety escapes her heart before she can contain it. "As there's a very good chance the committee will vote in favor of changing their construction methods..."

"Yes?" She hears less curiosity and more nervousness in his tone now.

"We'd better keep an eye on Valereth. He won't want to give up his plans so easily."

Tarrant's eyes narrow. "Of course. Responsible for logistics, you said?"

Alice nods, surprised that he remembers that detail.

"No doubt has the dynamite already, or knows where it is. Might even know how to use it..."

"Which means he could use it an any time, provided he has the opportunity to do so."

Their gazes meet and agree: there will be no rest for them until Mirana opens the mirrors and they can force Valereth back through it to where he belongs.

"I'm sure he has a plan," she continues. "If only we knew what it was!"

Tarrant agrees by way of his silence.

They dissect the pâté and the blue cheese. They watch the dancers but don't dare join in again, knowing that Valereth could easily slip past them if given the chance. Alice worries that, upon hearing the committee's decision, the man will escape them, head back to town, and set off the explosives himself.

Feeling tense and fidgety, Alice straightens Tarrant's cravat instead of attempting to shred the lace cuffs of her sleeves. She decides his cravat can't be improved because it had unfortunately been perfect to being with, but gives him a pat on the chest nonetheless. However, when she does so, her hand encounters something small, hard, and cylindrical through the fabric over the lapel pocket. Two somethings.

She pats his chest again. "What are those?"

His gaze – nearly yellow with anxiety – meets hers. Yes, they both can Feel that Something is going to happen tonight. "Krystoval's gift," he tells her. "Didn't think 'twas a gehd idea teh leave i'tin th'room..."

"No, you're right. We can't have one of the maids finding them." Dear Fates, the heart lines had been hard enough to explain, but an iridescent purple substance? _What _would she say to justify _that?_

Just as tense, awkward silence settles over them, Alice turns at a tap on her shoulder. "Hamish! You've escaped the cloud of tobacco already?"

He grimaces. "Gladly. I'm sure it's an acquired taste I'll... acquire when I'm good and ready for it."

Alice smiles.

"In any case, I've come to tell you the good news: father's agreed to waste money on that ridiculous subway project and the committee has agreed to institute the tunnel shielding method of Barlow's and Greathead's immediately."

Tarrant's fingers tighten around hers. She enthuses, "That's wonderful news! Are they signing over it?"

"Done and dry," he confirms, referring to the ink on the parchment. "And now that you've saved our fair city from overenthusiastic demolition crews, what will you do next?"

Alice is a little surprised to notice that this question had been directed to both her and Tarrant. She glances at him out of habit. "I'm not really, sure. We have yet to determine how much longer we'll be able to stay..."

"Well, when you do, I'll expect to be informed. We can't have you running off without a proper good-bye," he informs her. And then, "Hightopp, would you mind if I borrowed your Alice for a dance?"

Tarrant's face, as well as his heart, holds an interesting mix of possession and amusement. "That's up to Alice," he says instead.

Hamish turns toward her. "What do you say, Alice? One dance?"

"As long as it's not the quadrille."

Hamish stifles a bark of laughter behind a stuffy expression. Still, she enjoys the twitch his face makes with the effort. "No, I believe they're playing a schottische at the moment, but if you've forgotten how..."

"I'll be sure to break all of your toes."

He smiles and holds out a hand. "I'll risk it."

Alice feels fingertips against the back of her neck. She turns and smiles as Tarrant presses a kiss to her forehead. "Go let your feet enjoy themselves," he bids her.

She laughs and, turning back to Hamish, says, "You don't know what you've gotten yourself into."

He gives her martyred look as she accepts his hand. "Well, it's too late to withdraw the offer. I shall have to resign myself to my fate and endeavor to learn from my mistakes."

"Good luck with that," she replies as he swings her around and they join the whirling, kaleidoscope of dancers. The threat of broken toes does the trick, however, and he doesn't dare pull her too close, for which she's very thankful. Every few steps, she glances in Tarrant's direction. Sometimes he's watching her right back (which induces a delightful shiver down her spine) and sometimes he's scanning the crowd, presumably for Valereth.

"You seem a bit distracted tonight," Hamish observes.

"Because I haven't pointed out the gravy stain on your cravat?" she asks impishly.

Scowling, Hamish glances down at the garment. He doesn't even break stride as he does so. "You're having me on. There's nothing there, Alice."

"If you say so."

He huffs. "Tell me what's on your mind, Alice. I shalln't ask again and then we'll be forced to endure the rest of this dance in awkward silence."

"Threats, Hamish? That's new."

"Whatever it takes, madam."

She sighs, glances at Tarrant, who is watching her at that precise moment (which means Valereth _still _hasn't reappeared although she can see several men from the railway once more enjoying the party and Lord Ascot's brandy). "Just tell me your father's not alone with Mr. Rethbourne."

"No, he isn't. If you must know, he's ensconced in his office with his solicitor, trying to figure out a way to reel you back into the company with an offer of a partnership."

"What? No! Now _you _had better be having me on, Hamish."

"I'm not," he grouches.

"Botheration," she growls. "That partnership ought to go to _you_. You're the one who worked for it."

Hamish seems mollified by her assertion. "Thank you, Alice. It's kind of you to say that."

"It was an observation, not an opinion. Treat it as such, would you?"

"If you insist."

"I do."

He glances down at her with a speculative gleam in his blue eyes. "So you have no interest whatsoever in staying with the company?"

"I'm afraid not, Hamish. I love your father dearly, but I can't stay. Tarrant isn't the only one with obligations waiting in—"

"Yes?" Hamish prompts. "What was the name of that delightful nation you've come from? It seems to have slipped my mind."

"Hamish, you rotter, I never told you its name and I'm not about to. Tarrant and I are under obligation to the queen to keep the country's name and location a secret."

"A pity. I should think if that hat you'd arrived wearing and this gown are any indication, it's a country full of people with grand imagination and vision. A trade agreement would have been most welcome."

"One more mention of trade and I'll start breaking toes, Hamish." His lips twitch into a reluctant smile. Alice sighs. "But you're right. They are a people of great imagination and vision."

"Which is why you can't wait to return," he finished. "I understand, Alice. So will my father. But... he will miss you."

_Only your father?_ she doesn't ask. Alice replies, "I'll miss him, too."

Hamish glances at her expression, sees the knowing gleam in her eyes and the Mona Lisa smile on her lips, and relaxes. "That will be a comfort to him, I'm sure."

A peace Alice hadn't expected to feel (and, least of all, with Hamish Ascot!) settles over her.

When Alice glances up again in Tarrant's direction, she blinks in confusion at the empty space on the wall. Had she looked in the wrong direction? Gotten turned around on the dance floor? (Oh, a pun!) Frowning, she scans the crowd.

"Alice? What is it?"

Still not seeing Tarrant, Alice Calls to him but only a slight stab of aggressive irritation answers her. "I'm so sorry, Hamish, could we cut this dance short?" Meeting his unhappy expression, she offers, "I'll still owe you one later."

"Well... I suppose so then," he answers agreeably and then disengages them both from the throng. Even before they've moved completely off of the dance floor, Alice is glancing around for Tarrant.

"Looking for Hightopp?" Hamish comments.

Alice gives him a Look.

He chuckles and nods toward the terrace. "I happened to notice him heading outside. Perhaps he simply needed a breath of fresh air. These sorts of affairs _do _tend to get a bit stifling. I'm sure he—Alice?"

Squeezing through the crowd in the direction of the terrace, Alice waves a distracted farewell to Hamish.

_"Tarrant?"_ she Calls, worried at his sudden absence and the rumblings of frustration along the heart line. Clutching her handbag, she manages to elbow her way toward the open doors and onto the wide balcony overlooking the yard.

She squints into the darkness, willing her eyes to adjust. From this vantage point, she can see the edge of the forest, the gazebo where she and Hamish had suffered through that wretched proposal, and Lady Ascot's high-hedged, maze-like rose garden...

The rose garden!

_There!_

Alice squints at a flash of movement deep within the hedges. She's moving down the steps before she even composes her next heart line message:

_"I'm coming!"_

But then: _**"NO! STOP!"**_

Baffled, she stumbles to a halt at the base of the stairs. In the shadow of the terrace, Alice considers the situation: Why had Tarrant come out here? Is he truly all right? If he weren't would he admit it to her? His pregnant wife whom he's supposed to be protecting?

"Stubborn Outlander," she mutters, striding toward the roses.

But then...

Then...!

Alice gasps as someone roughly grabs her arm and swings her about. She can't stop her momentum – aided by the determined strides she'd taken in the direction of the maze – and brings up her arms just in time to keep her face from smashing into the stone wall beneath the terrace.

"Champion Alice."

Alice's heart sputters in fear at the satisfaction in Valereth's soft voice.

"Well? Are you a Champion or not? Turn and face your foe, Lassling."

The name, spoken in _his _voice, in _that _tone, summons forth a storm of memories and before she can trample them down, before she can even _remember the existence of the revolver in her handbag_ she turns.

And flinches at the heat.

Heat and an odd numbness in her stomach.

She twitches, gasps, and looks away from Valereth's face to the long, slender blade buried in her body.

"Why, Champion Alice... no corset? I don't believe you're properly dressed."

The words, patronizing with the hint of a sneer wash over her. Thinking only of the child – _their child!_ – Alice's fingers scrabble at the slick, bloody blade, soaking and slicing open her gloves. She pushes herself back until she hits the wall, grabs and pulls at the blade.

But Valereth is stronger.

Alice has no idea what message her heart line is sending now. She cannot recognize Tarrant's reaction to it. Her mind is blank with _panic-fear-terror-desperation-__**STOP-NO-NO-NO-NO-NOT-REAL-NOT-HAPPENING!**_

She barely feels Valereth's hand at her throat, knocking her head against the wall, she barely registers the pain of it, barely sees the white stars exploding across her vision. The blade – long and slender, typical of those concealed within a gentleman's walking stick – stirs, slices, tears.

Her frantic hands are no match for it.

_**NO-NO-NO-NO-NO!**_

She thinks of the child, the yet-to-be-named child in her belly just bellow the hot, aching, biting pain in her guts.

"Die, Champion of Underland," a voice commands in her ear. "But, please, not too quickly."

And then Alice falls. Lands. Her fingers curl into the turf before she finds the strength to move her arm to her abdomen. But no... no... there is nothing she can do about the gaping wounds. He'd run her through. There's no point in trying to hold herself together. She is not Humpty Dumpty and not even her queen, a woman of considerable skills in the healing arts, will be able to save her now.

"And now for Hightopp."

Her pain-turned-hopelessness-turned-despair sharpens and twists and _snarls._

She opens her eyes, stares as Valereth turns toward the rose gardens. Any moment now Tarrant will come barreling out of there... and right into Valereth's sword!

_**NO!**_

Alice grabs for the only thing within her power left to do. The only gift she can give her husband. The only way left for a fallen Champion to fight... and _win!_

* * *

Notes:

1. The part about food being passed around and served before being cut and so on comes from Through the Looking Glass when Alice tries to cut a plum pudding to share with the lion and the unicorn (and others) but is unable to do so. She's advised to pass it around first and then cut it, the exact opposite of what is logical. And the part about food being cooked before the ingredients have been prepared comes from another fanfic - one of my very _favorite _Hatter POV stories! - Stockings by Amaranthea.

2. In addition to the waltz, several other dances were popular during the Victorian Era: the schottische (a country dance of Bohemian origin), the mazurka (a Polish folk dance), and – believe it or not – the polka!

* * *

[End of Chapter 13: Scene 1 of 2]


	105. Book 3, Unbearable Circumstances, 2 of 2

**NOTE: **This chapter is rated**_ M _**for**_ violence, gore, _**and**_ death._**

This is the **second** scene out of 5 that deal with this confrontation. If you can't wait for me to post them all here, this story is finished and posted on my homepage. See my FFnet profile for the link.**_  
_**

* * *

_**Chapter Thirteen: Unbearable Circumstances  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

He'd made a choice.

When he'd glanced away from the sight of his Alice twirling around the dance floor with that harmless, sometimes-amusingly-arrogant fop, Hamish, scowling at him and no doubt threatening his future ability to walk successfully in a straight line (although why anyone would bother to walk in a straight line, Tarrant isn't sure)... when he'd glanced away and had glimpsed that slurking urpal slackush scrum wending his way through the crowd toward the terrace doors... when he'd seen the restrained scowl on the man's face and the air of determination about his being... when he'd seen _that_, he'd made a choice. A choice between being Alice's husband and being her Champion.

He'd left her safe in Ascot's care, had steeled his heart, and had followed.

Through the crush of perfumed-yet-perspiring people, onto the terrace, down the steps, across the lawn, and down a path formed by towering hedges of red roses.

His mind had reeled slightly at the sight:

_Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid!_

But a flash of a tailcoat disappearing around the bend had saved him from the madness, from alerting Alice to his quest. No, Alice need not know. He'll deal with this. This time – this _one time!_ – he'll save _her!_

He'd made another choice. A right turn, then another, then a left, and then... and then...

Just as he realizes that the tailcoat and the man wearing it had disappeared, Alice Notices his absence in the ballroom.

He winces at her Alarm. Is this what the sensation feels like when he worries for her? If so, he's surprised she's never complained about it before: it feels bloody _awful_. Massaging his chest with his left hand, long-bladed knife in his right, Tarrant Replies.

_"Everything's fine! Stay where you are."_

Irritated with himself for losing the blighter, he turns and begins making his way back the way he'd come. He breathes with care and steps with soft, deliberate motions. Valereth is out here still and he must be wary of sudden attack. With rational stealth, Tarrant moves through the maze, ignores the color of the roses – ignores the roses entirely! – and pauses at each juncture to listen before crossing the intersection. He's just beginning to marvel at how very far he'd wandered into the maze when another message from Alice sears his heart.

_Determination-stubbornness-rash-temper-now!_

But, no! _**NO!**_ He Shouts his denial back to her. She must stay in the ballroom where it's _safe!_ Where there are people! Where Valereth would not dare harm her!

He looks up, in what he believes to be the direction of the terrace, and scowls. He damns the too-high, too-thick hedges. He damns the filtered, listless sounds of the party that seem to scatter and echo around him, coming from all directions.

He prays he hasn't gotten himself turned around in this bloody maze because if he has then...!

Then...!

_Panic-fear-confusion-NO-shock-numb-what?-NO-damnation!_

Tarrant gasps. "_Alice!_"

He Reaches for her, opens up his heart as he rushes forward, no longer concerned with stealth or silence. He Reaches just as a chillingly familiar, but long-unfelt, sensation settles over the heart line: madness. Alice's madness.

His breath catches and tangles in his throat. He grabs at the rose bushes to help steady himself as he rushes around corner after corner. His hands come away wet. It does not occur to him that it's blood.

The moment of Silence – of cold, absolute, _mad_ Silence – that had settled over his heart shatters, breaks, explodes with panic and terror and disbelief and betrayal and desperation so thick and sharp Tarrant gags on it.

_"ALICE?"_ he Calls.

She doesn't answer.

The madness has gone and the bitter tang of her panic dulls, un-focuses, rambles and whirls. Her denial is the strongest emotion left now and the others begin to fade, as if she does not have the strength of will to support them all.

_**"ALICE?"**_

Still, she does not answer. Tarrant lunges around the corner and comes to a stop in front of a wall of thorns. For a moment, he gapes at the hedge. The hedge where the exit should be! Had been! But _IS NO LONGER!_

_Despair..._

Tarrant turns around, retraces his steps, tries to blank that emotion from his thoughts, from his mind. He does not want to Think about what that means. What it must mean. What might cause his Alice to _Despair...!_

_Determination!_

Yes, yes, that's it, Alice! Fight! Fight just a little longer!

Tarrant finds his wrong turning and corrects it. Nearly there! He. Is. NEARLY. _THERE!_

_**BANG!**_

The sound – _that's a gunshot!_ – upsets his balance and he stumbles over his own feet, but he doesn't lose momentum. Tarrant is in sight of the exit now... so close! So Very Close!

He emerges in time to see Valereth slump to his knees on the grass, his eyes unfocused in shock and his face devoid of expression, of intent, of thought. The thin, sword-like blade in his grasp drops to the ground, glinting in the light from the party above.

It glints silver... and red.

Red.

Tarrant looks across the lawn to the shadows beneath the terrace, to the fair, curling hair of a woman. A woman lying on the ground.

"_**ALICE!**_"

He crashes to his knees beside her. His knife is tossed away, forgotten. Her hands – red, red, red, red! – reach for him and he lifts her, curls his body around hers, cradles her on his thighs, in his arms.

"_Alice..._"

He looks her over now: Her _poor_ hands! (Had she tried to fight against Valereth's blade with merely her fingers?) And then he sees the spreading stain darkening her tattered dress, the dress he'd altered for her, crafted for her...

In disbelief, he places his hand over the ruin of her belly.

"_Alice..._"

She struggles to keep her eyes open, to look at him, to _see _him. Her hand lifts and her poor, poor fingers claw at his lapel pocket.

"Jabber..." she whispers.

Without a word, he removes his hand from the torn fabric-and-flesh and grabs one of the vials, opens the cap, presses it to her lips.

She closes her mouth, turns away. "You," she says.

"No," he replies. "I'm nae leavin' ye. Drink it. Think o' th' White Queen. She'll—"

With a strength that surprises him, she wrestles the vial from his grasp. "You. Drink. Move through Time."

He gapes and struggles to keep Alice from going all blurry and fuzzy on him. "What? Time? Slayed the bastard ages ago. For you, Alice. For _you! Ye cannae LEAVE ME NAUW!_"

"Time and Place," she insists. She grasps his hand and presses it against her belly, lower than her wounds. "Move through Time and Place," she repeats. "We need you."

An odd, broken sob echoes against the stone wall of the terrace. He drags in a breath, blinks his useless eyes.

"_Choose us!_" she grates out, her voice is barely a breath, the scraping of a twig over autumn leaves.

"_Alice. Alice. Alice. Alice..._"

Then a _Slap!_ comes through the heart line, startling him, shaking him free of the tears and panic and desolation and hopelessness and...

_Slap!_

"So sorry!" he gasps.

"We need you," she repeats and he can see it's the last of her strength. "Move through Time. Choose us." She lifts the vial to his lips.

Beneath his hand, within her belly, something stirs. A flutter of motion. _Their littlin's first Futterwhacken!_ he thinks through the blindingly hot sting of tears.

"Us..." his Alice whispers. "..._drink_..."

He does.

* * *

[End of Chapter 13]


	106. Book 3, Gifts Twine, 1 of 2

**NOTE: **This chapter is rated**_ M _**for**_ violence, gore, _**and**_ death._**

This is the **third and fourth** scenes out of 5 that deal with this confrontation. If you can't wait for me to post them all here, this story is finished and posted on my homepage. See my FFnet profile for the link.**_  
_**

* * *

_**Chapter Fourteen: Gifts, Twine  
**_

[Scenes 1 and 2 of 3]

It is a beautiful plan.

Without the long-term satisfaction of business partners to concern him, Valereth had come upon the most elegant, most vicious, most _perfect _plan.

And none of it would have been possible without Alice.

He smiles and watches from the shadows of the hallway just beyond the ballroom doors. Alice glides past in that unfashionably colorful gown, in the arms of that pale and utterly unremarkable Ascot buffoon. Soon, it will be time for Valereth to make his move.

He almost regrets ending the game now. He rather would have liked to have strung Hightopp and Mamoreal's Champion out a bit longer, heightened their fear, played with their anxieties. But that is not his way. He will take his revenge here. Tonight. On the night of their "victory" with the commissioners, he will savor his own. Perhaps this is the only reckless portion of his plan, but it is too poetic to let pass. A man is surely permitted a few small enjoyments in life, is he not? Not everything _must _be done impersonally. And Valereth will take _great _pleasure in seeing to this matter _personally_. Really, this is the way it must be. For it is the _best _way. And his way _is_ and has _always _been the _best_, the _surest_, the most _likely to be met with success._

Jaspien and Oshtyer had not understood that. But it hardly matters now.

He deliberately does _not _think about Jaspien and the advice – valuable advice! – Valereth had given him on the eve of the Champions' Duel against the White Queen. If he had taken it, they might have fought _and won _another day. Instead... _Instead...!_

Exile.

The thought turns his tongue to ashes in his mouth.

And for those first few years, he had been without hope of ever regaining anything of value, of ever exacting revenge upon Underland and the Queen's Champion. But then... _Then...!_

Valereth smiles.

Yes, _then_ he'd heard the rumors as he'd sat in the back of dingy Grobben pubs, hiding disgracefully in the shadows: the Jabberwocky had spawned and, suddenly, there had been hope once again. It had been a short conversation, indeed, that had secured Oshtyer's cooperation. They'd watched the nest, tricked the young one, taken its blood, and followed their dreams of Alice Up Here. To London.

Oshtyer's... _efforts_ had been instrumental in establishing themselves. The man's natural inclination toward cruelty had lead them to boxing matches and opium dens and brothels. Within a few weeks, the man had opened an... _establishment _of his own. And, with Valereth's business acumen, they'd begun accruing funds. Enough funds for Valereth to purchase nice clothing, secure a modest residence, make useful friends. He'd left Oshtyer to his dens, advising him on his finances – _their _finances, at the time; _Valereth's _finances, now! – as he'd sought to find a way to bring Underland to its knees.

And then he'd read of the recent use of dynamite in a mine somewhere in the country. Dynamite. Now all he needed to do was put it in the ground where it would do some _good!_ The optimal location would be beneath Buckingham Palace, for he was _sure_ no Upland Palace would have allowed itself to be built anywhere except upon the same hallowed ground as the greatest of Underland's castles: Mamoreal. But, it had been easy to see how disappointingly _impossible _that would be. Still, there had been other options. And he'd taken them!

Instead of destroying Mamoreal in one strike, he'd chosen to employ several. Would the terror not be greater, in the end? And, the end itself, would that not be the same? He'd worked his way onto the subway committee, had lobbied for the use of dynamite, had invested considerable sums in its procurement personally!

Of course, Oshtyer had objected when he'd discovered the fate of their hard-earned funds. But it had hardly mattered then. Oshtyer had served his purpose well enough.

Oshtyer had been lured to the recent demolition site, to the still-gaping hole. A sound knock on the head with a brick and a slash of the blade from Valereth's walking stick (which had been _quite _satisfying, indeed!), a roll of pounds in his jacket pocket – and Valereth had been sure to hand the man _that _jacket on their way out the door, the jacket with the name of London's finest tailor sewn into the lining – and a push... And that had been the end of Oshtyer and the beginning of the final phase of Valereth's plan.

He'd expected Alice to follow the trail: check the coat, use the quid, and with Oshtyer dying before being able to impart any valuable information, he'd expected her to arrive blind, not knowing the name of the man she sought or the cause of the devastation that had rocked Underland.

He'd also expected her to come alone.

His initial panic at seeing not only her but also a _man _exiting the Kingsleigh residence had startled him. But only for a moment. For, when he'd recognized the man, he'd relaxed. Tarrant Hightopp, Mamoreal's Mad Hatter, would be no match for a mind like Valereth's. No match at all.

The timing of their arrival had been impeccable. The newspaper article about the recent demolition had kept the two of them occupied on stopping further destruction rather than discovering Valereth's whereabouts and new identity until...

Valereth smiles.

Until the invitation had arrived. And by then, it had been too late. They had all been invited to the glorious occasion.

Yes, this _glorious_ occasion.

For tonight, Alice will die by the blade. But not quickly. No, no, no quick, easy death – not for the Champion of Underland.

And then Hightopp, he'll be a simple matter to be dealt with. The death of his bond mate will drive him completely mad. Perhaps Valereth won't bother to kill him at all. Perhaps he'll sell the man's drooling, catatonic shell to a scientific establishment. Yes, he could use the funds to recover the losses of the most recent dynamite purchase.

Not that those explosives will go to waste. Oh, no. They'll be put to good use.

_Very _good use.

And his revenge will be complete.

Valereth moves out of the shadows and into the ballroom. Within, Alice is still dancing. Hightopp is still watching.

_Watch **me**,_ he wills the hatter, schooling himself into the form of a desperate man.

_Watch me destroy your life, your world, your existence._

Valereth fights a smile.

His tongue no longer tastes like ash in his mouth.

Now it tastes like honey... and blood.

* * *

He makes a choice. When he swallows the oddly tasteless, iridescently purple, watery substance, Tarrant Hightopp chooses his wife, their littlin', their future.

_"Move through Time and Place,"_ she'd said. He _Clings_ to those words as he _Clings _to the fading warmth along his heart line from Alice.

Alice.

_His _Alice.

_His Alice is dying!_

And, at her insistence, he Leaves. Before her final breath, before his mind is utterly destroyed by the sensation of the heart line turning to dust, before the Anchor that she is and has always been is cut.

He Leaves, for that is the choice he'd made.

_Move through Time._

He doesn't understand, but he doesn't need to. He Believes in her. He Trusts her. He will Follow wherever she Leads him.

He imagines her.

Not broken and bloody and... and... (Her poor hands!) and rattling breaths and... and... (Their child dying beneath his hand – one twitch of Life before the arrival of Death!) and...

_Futterwhacken!_

He shakes himself and Remembers her. Dancing with Hamish Ascot, just across the crowded ballroom. He imagines her there, scowling up at the man, threatening his toes, and looking so utterly, incomparably lovely and _alive and wearing __**the dress he'd fashioned for her, HIS-AND-ONLY-**__**HIS**__** ALICE!**_

He Recalls that moment, Reaches for it with all his might.

_Take me There!_

The warm body in his arms lightens, fades. A wind that is not wind – is not anything at all! – engulfs him. Pulls him.

Pulls him Downward.

_**No!**_

He resists the siren's call of Underland. He can feel it opening to him, beckoning, awaiting his return. For the briefest moment, he hallucinates: he imagines he'll find peace there, happiness, his Alice.

But, no. _NO!_

He fights the draw of the blood, the blood's living owner, the land of Under itself.

He fights for Alice.

_Alice!_

He Envisions her smile, the golden light from the gas lamps of the ballroom illuminating her hair, the animation in her gaze as she looks at him over Ascot's shoulder...

_ALICE!_

Every want he's ever had, every desire he's ever felt, every need he's ever tasted is encapsulated in Her Name.

And suddenly, the wind-that-is-not-wind stops.

The pull evaporates.

The music resumes.

Tarrant shudders, swallows, opens his eyes, and blinks at the scene before him.

He's once again standing in the crowd, against the wall. The very wall he and Alice had stationed themselves in front of in order to keep watch on the entrances and exits of the room.

_Alice!_

He scans the whirling, twirling crush of dancers, searching, searching...

And _THERE!_

He catches sight of Hamish's red hair and then a flair of violet skirt and then...!

"_Alice..._" Tarrant very nearly crashes to his knees. _She's alive! Still! Yet!_

He grabs for the nearest object with which to steady himself. His palm slams down, connecting with something solid – the buffet table! – and shakes it, nearly upsetting a tray of petit fours. Stumbling a bit, forcing his knees not to tremble, Tarrant glances down and gasps at... at...

_Red-red-red-red-red!_

He closes his eyes, shakes his head, blinks them open again...

And stares at his perfectly pristine cravat, waistcoat, and shirt.

_Ye're imaginin' thin's, lad._

Yes, he is. He is _not_ covered in Alice's blood. He frowns.

_Is _he imagining things? Perhaps that scene, that horrible scene and that unthinkable event – he can't even Think it without feeling his grip on sanity begin to slide away from him – had merely been a nightmare?

A nightmare that he remembers with painful, terrifying clarity.

_But look!_ he tells himself. _Alice is fine!_

So that means that unthinkable thing had not happened to her and their littlin'. That means her hands – her poor, _poor _fingers! – had not been mutilated in the struggle with a blade and her belly had not been—!

_STOP!_

Tarrant shakes his head, looks up, finds Alice again, takes a deep breath.

_Ye see, lad? Th'lass an' yer bairn 'r' jus'fine._

Yes, yes they are.

He doesn't think twice about sending her his love, sharing it along the heart line.

Only... only this time, something's wrong. The message disintegrates before he feels it burn across the mark from his heart into hers. It falls dead from his fingertip.

Tarrant startles, stares at his gloved left hand, struggles with the sudden and inexplicable feeling of _Aloneness_, _Abandonment..._

What in the name of Underland is _going on here?_

He struggles to focus – a task that should not be _quite _so difficult! – but his thoughts are scattered, swirling, random.

What is he doing just standing here? Why had he let Alice dance off with her former Intended? He hates gloves. The heart line is a secret – _their _secret. And a memory: Alice's hand pressed over his chest and her voice promising him, _"I'm your secret, Tarrant..."_ The flash of swords: _Fight Alice! Don' le'him draw ye in!_ Where is her sword now? No, now she has a revolver...

_BANG!_

_"It is a man's duty to assert his will over nature..."_

_"Tarrant has __**never**__ forced me to do a single thing!"_

Tarrant shudders as the memories and thoughts and questions pile on top of one another, layering and swirling and swelling...!

With a brief flash of Alice's naked belly, just beginning to curve, beginning to grow full with their littlin', Tarrant shakes himself sharply.

"Futterwhacken!" he shouts.

He blinks, ignores the startled glances he'd drawn from nearby party guests. He relishes the moment of Quiet in his mind.

His mind...!

The heart line...!

And he Knows: it's no longer working.

He fists his hands at the thought: he's Alone. For the first time in _years_, his Alice cannot Feel him, just as he cannot Feel her and he is _Alone _with the madness and it never really left and he was never really healed and every Bad thought and memory had merely been waiting for this moment, waiting for him to be cut loose from his Alice so that they might drown him in the darkness and despair and the darkest of nightmares...!

_Alice!_

Her poor fingers!

_No, 'twas jus' a __**dream!**_

Their littlin'!

_Is fine!_

The blood: red, red, _red, red, __**red...!**_

_There is nae any blood nauw, lad!_

He shivers, closes his eyes, turns away from the cacophony of the melee.

And he sees a familiar face. It wears an expression that _would _have been bland if not for the scowl of fury tightening the muscles just beneath the skin.

Valereth.

Tarrant watches as the man crosses the room, his body tense with suppressed purpose.

Alice's recent words of Concern come back to him in that instant: _"He won't want to give up his plans so easily."_

Tarrant's eyes narrow.

_"No doubt has the dynamite already, or knows where it is. Might even know how to use it..."_

Which means the man _could_ use it at any time... "Given the opportunity," Tarrant murmurs.

He follows.

Each step feels Fated, somehow. He finds himself fighting a chill, swallowing down his anxiety, pushing aside his thoughts.

No, he cannot allow the madness to distract him now! Not now!

He passes over the threshold and moves onto the balcony. Turning, scanning, he just notices Valereth disappear into the looming hedges across the lawn.

Something pulls Tarrant in that direction. Warily, he begins descending the stairs. And yet, with each step, he grows colder, shivers harder.

Something is _Wrong._

Halfway down the flight of stairs, he stops. He places a hand over his unfeeling heart...

_Why is the Heart Mark so silent? Broken?_

... and frowns at the soft sound of hollow glass tinkling out of his lapel pocket. He reaches in and pulls out the vials of Jabberwocky blood. The first he grasps glows purple in the dim light of the party behind him. The second...

He stares. He can feel his brows twitching, his mouth trembling.

But for a few drops clinging to the interior of the vial, the second is completely _empty._

_Empty._

Tarrant's hand fists around the vials as his memories – those soul-destroyingly-devastating recollections of his Alice _dying in his arms_ – revisit him. Sear him. Strip the sanity from his mind.

_It was __**REAL!**_

Not a nightmare. Not a delusion. Not a night terror of the foulest sort. Not...!

He slumps against the wall, his knees giving out completely, and he slides to the cold, stone steps. He buries his head in his hands, suffers through the sensation of his entire being blurring with the need to scream, to sob, to shout, to give in to the sickness within him.

_Alice!_

He Calls, but he knows she does not Hear him. How can she hear him? This mind from an unbearable future is trapped within a body that has not yet lived it! He is not One with his Alice because Time has Separated them! _This _mind knows not _this _heart line!

Time forgets Tarrant there, on the stairs – a rhyme! – until the shadowy hint of motion catches his attention:

Valereth. Crossing the lawn toward the terrace, returning to the party. But, no, not returning.

Tarrant watches as the man's form melds and disappears into the shadows at the base of the terrace wall. Waiting.

For what?

And then another flutter of activity, much closer. Tarrant looks up as Alice steps out onto the terrace. "Tarrant?" she calls.

The sound of her voice, so utterly _Alice,_ destroys his strength and his reply disintegrates in his chest.

She turns – turns away from him! – and begins jogging down the steps – the steps curving down to the lawn from the right side of the balcony! Tarrant watches from his position – still sitting – on the opposite set of stairs and suddenly...!

Suddenly!

He begins to _Understand!_

Tarrant glances in the direction of the maze, watches a wispy recollection of Valereth striding toward and then entering the hedged path without a backwards glance. And then, a moment later, Tarrant remembers... _himself_ following after him!

Tarrant gapes, gawks, struggles to comprehend...

_Ye've gone back in Time, lad._

So... so that's...?

_Aye, 'tis ye. Th' mem'ry o' th' one o'ye who was stupid enough teh leave yer Alice unprotected._

Tarrant feels his hands fist, his expression harden. He won't be making _that _mistake _this _time!

"Stubborn Outlander..." his Alice whispers and he hears her Fear!

He scrambles to his feet. _ALICE!_

He grasps the railing and pulls himself up to the edge of the stairs, sees his Alice pause at the base of the staircase opposite. A few paces away, in the deepest dark of the shadows, a figure stirs.

_Valereth!_

Tarrant backs up a step, reaffirms his grasp on the railing, and sends himself flying over the edge!

* * *

[End of Chapter 14: Scenes 1 & 2]


	107. Book 3, Gifts Twine, 2 of 2

**NOTE: **This chapter is rated**_ M _**for**_ violence, gore, _**and**_ death._**

This is the **FINAL** scene out of 5 that deal with this confrontation. **_  
_**

* * *

_**Chapter Fourteen: Gifts, Twine  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Alice sighs heavily and surveys the Ascot's finely groomed lawn. There's the gazebo – she ignores the memories it stirs as if they are merely a tiny cloud of harmless, buzzing insects – and she sees the rose garden, of course – another irritating memory! – and beyond both, the edge of the wood wherein she'd fallen down the rabbit hole...

She considers her options.

She takes a deep breath. _The rose garden_, she decides, suddenly anxious not only over the alarming cessation of Tarrant's presence in and around her heart, but also over something else... Something she can't quite...

Alice shivers, wonders at the inexplicable _fear _gripping her. _Tarrant? Where _**are**_ you?  
_  
And, for that matter, where is _she? _Where is the Champion she has become? Shouldn't she be stronger? Braver? Muchier than this?

Her hands tremble. Her breaths pant.  
_  
Oh, why had Tarrant wandered off _**now? **And why can't she Feel him? And where is he? And why did _he leave her _**alone?**

"Stubborn Outlander..." she mutters but the sound of her own voice – wavering, warbling and otherwise distinctly lacking in the frustration she'd meant to flavor it with – gives her no comfort.

The fear is almost enough to drive her back up the stairs, but the thought that he Needs her... The knowledge that if she wants answers, she'll have to Seek them herself... Each takes a hand and pulls her forward.

She takes a hesitant step in the direction of the rose labyrinth, pauses, turns back toward the steps and sees...!

"Champion Alice."

Alice swallows back her surprise. "Valereth," she answers evenly, happy to be out of his reach but very _unhappy _to see the long, slender sword in his hand. "I've thought up another answer to your riddle," she hears herself say.

His lips twitch in a brief expression of amusement. "As have I."

He lunges. She stumbles back, trips over the hem of the long skirt, falls.

Lands.

Rolls away.

And stops at the sound of metal striking not flesh, not stone, but... _metal?_

Alice jerks her head up and feels her eyes widen, for _there _is Tarrant, standing between her and the sword, his much shorter knife being employed to block Valereth's advance.

The very sight of her _husband _so close to mortal peril nearly breaks her, but no. NO! That will _not _help Tarrant now!

Later, much later, she will wonder why she hadn't considered screaming for help. She will chastise herself for that, for her foolish self-reliance. For risking Tarrant's life so rashly. It does not even _occur_ to her to call for help. She reaches for her sword and then remembers why she isn't wearing it.

_Brangergain i'tall!_

Tarrant has Valereth's sword arm in his grasp and Valereth has locked his fingers around the hand that holds Tarrant's knife. There's a flurry of feet – kicking and scraping – and then both of them are losing their balance, falling! They roll away from each other and stand, begin circling. Valereth's much longer blade is trained on Tarrant. Tarrant, whom she can no longer Feel, but if that look on his face is any indication, has completely lost himself to his madness...

Alice shivers and tries to _think!_

_The revolver!_

Of course! How utterly _stupid _of her not to have reached for it sooner! She dives for her handbag, tears it open, pulls out the gun and snaps the bullet-filled cylinder into place. She braces herself against the balustrade, pulls back the hammer, aims and sights...

And growls as Tarrant steps in her way. The knife and sword flash in the darkness, gleaming with hidden light that must be coming from the stars because the gas lamps are throwing nothing but long, black shadows over this patch of the estate.

Tarrant sidesteps a lunge, slashes with the knife, but his reach is too short and Valereth's too long and if this goes on much longer, the man will send that blade _right through her husband's __**belly!**_

She's mad-scared-frustrated-frightened-enraged-terrified enough to scream!

_Scream... _she thinks.

And then she does.

Affecting her best imitation of Thackery's Witzend accent, she hollers, "_Ye're late f'r TEA!_"

Out of a long-ago-learned reflex, Tarrant ducks.

Valereth swings with the cane sword.

Alice pulls the trigger.

_BANG!_

Tarrant flinches and rolls out of the way.

Had Valereth's hand not suddenly gone lax, allowing the sword to wobble uselessly, had the gun _not _fired correctly, Tarrant would have... would have...

She doesn't think it. She _won't _think it!

Valereth stumbles to his knees.

Alice rushes forward and, grasping her husband's elbow, helps him to his feet.

"A gun..." Valereth murmurs, his hands pressing against the hole in his chest.

Alice takes in the flash of numb surprise in his eyes and, finally, the last puzzle piece fits into place. "A gun, a gift from Oshtyer," Alice says, although by the unfocused state of the man's eyes she doubts he can even hear her. "Who understood Uplanders far better than you ever could."

Tarrant wraps his arms around her, nuzzles her hair, but Alice doesn't turn away from the man dying at their feet. She watches as he sits back on his heels, lists to the side, and tumbles to the lawn. She forces herself to watch as the light leaves his eyes, forces herself to listen as the breath rattles from his lungs.

Champion Alice.

Yes, she still is that.

Finally, when her duty is done and the man is utterly dead, she closes her eyes, drops the gun, fights back the wave of nausea, and buries her nose in Tarrant's jacket. Where she smells his fear and perspiration and the clinging scents of gas smoke and invasive cologne. She smells _him_, but, still, she does not Feel him.

Leaning back, she frowns up at him. "Tarrant, what...? Why can't I...?"

She's startled into silence by his eyes. Aqua. Rich, deep, _glowing _aqua. He smiles and it is utterly _mad._

His knife is gone and his arms are around her, but one uncurls, reaches for his lapel pocket and lifts out...

Alice is puzzled for a moment at the sight of the vial of glowing Jabberwocky blood. But then Tarrant moves away from her, uncaps it, leans over Valereth, forces the man's mouth open and upends the contents into it.

"Back teh where ye b'long, ye wretched waste o' a man," he Commands.

Alice can do nothing but watch, flunderwhapped, as Valereth's body begins to fade and then... disappears completely.

"I don't underst—"

She gasps as a sensation that is not a snap, not a punch, not a crashing tidal wave, but all of those things and so much more...! _smashes_ into her chest. Into her heart.

Alice struggles to breathe and then Tarrant is there. He is There! And she can Feel him again and his madness is so hot and desperate and Real and his Love and frantic Desperation and...!

"_Alice!_" his whisper is a scream, a sob, a prayer in her ear. His body is warm and solid and shivering around hers. She clings to him, still not understanding: Why had the heart line broken and then mended itself so suddenly? What...? Why...? _How...?_

"Tarrant?"

He leans back, aligns his mouth with hers, but suddenly pulls back. Before she can protest, she feels his hand – hot and large – press against her belly.

He says nothing, but his silence is more filled with eloquence and meaning than any words could possibly impart. And then...

Alice gasps as something... _moves._ Flutters. From _within _her.

She blinks through the sudden blurring of her vision, focuses on Tarrant's overjoyed and devoted expression through the heat burning behind her eyes and the _feel_ of...

_Their child._

Tarrant leans closer, his breaths are sighs of relief and love so fierce he can't contain the emotions and Alice is overwhelmed by them.

"Futterwhacken," he murmurs against her lips and, finally, kisses her.

And it is a kiss like none other they've shared. He does more than taste, savor, worship, give, take, need... He _is_. He _exists_ in her, with her.

_"There is no me without you."_

Had he only whispered those words a few hours ago? Had she foolishly thought she'd understood them then?

She understands now.

They kiss until the taste is lost, until their unique flavors are thoroughly mixed and their tongues have become numb to the nuances of it. They kiss until there is only soft, wet warmth here in the darkness.

"Alice," he murmurs, pulling away to drink in the scent of her hair, her throat. "I chose us, Alice. _Us._"

As the words register through the haze of awakening passion and lingering relief, Alice opens her eyes.

Straightening and reaching into his lapel pocket once more, Tarrant removes the second glass vial of the Jabberwocky's blood.

It's empty.

"I chose _us... my Alice... our littlin'... __**Us.**_"

His mind is still chaotic, she knows, but looking at that vial, she thinks... perhaps she can imagine... Alice closes her eyes and wraps her arms around her stomach.

Yes, she can imagine what set of circumstances – unbearable circumstances! – might have motivated Tarrant to drink the Jabberwocky blood, to travel into the past, to change the present.

_I must have told him..._ she muses. _I must have sent him through Time myself._

"You saved us," she answers. "Protected us."

His arms are tight around her again. "I promised ye I would."

"Thank you." The words are so inadequate, but she can think of nothing else to say in their place. She Sends her answer instead.

She feels tears against her ear, gulping breaths in her hair and against her neck. Somehow, she finds herself in possession of the empty vial, the vial that had contained the jabberwocky blood that Tarrant had drunk. The jabberwocky blood that had – she is sure! – saved her life, their child's life, Tarrant's life!

_Thank you, Krystoval,_ she thinks, returning her husband's grasping hold. _And thank you, Oshtyer. Thank you both for these precious gifts..._

A resolution.

And a second chance.

* * *

Notes:

1. Again, I had help from my husband with this chapter. We had a chat about time paradoxes and I was trying to figure out how to manage _two _Hatters when he suggested I return the future-Hatter's mind to past-Hatter's body after drinking the Jabberwocky blood. Just rewind Time but allow Tarrant to keep all his memories. And, because it was utterly brilliant and meshes well with Alice's own experience with Jabberwocky blood, I snitched it. We're married, after all. His ideas are _my _ideas, etc. etc. (^_~)

2. When Tarrant drank the Jabberwocky blood and went back in time, it shifted (for lack of a better word) the heart line out of alignment. Tarrant's mind had not been able to "connect" with the heart line until he'd lived through the events and allowed time to catch up with him, so to speak. Gawd, I hope that makes sense...

3. If you still have questions about how Tarrant figured out how to send Valereth's body back to Underland, please be patient with me. He and Alice will discuss all this in the next chapter.

4. How many of you remember this little exchange from _Book 1, Chapter Ten: The Sixth Suitor_?

Mirana: "Tarrant would never let anyone kill his Alice."

Chessur: "Just so, Your Majesty. He never has, and I dare say he never will."

Just thought I'd point that out. (^_~)

* * *

[End of Chapter 14]


	108. Book 3, A New Beginning, 1 of 4

_**Chapter Fifteen: A New Beginning  
**_

[Scene 1 of 4]

Several people had heard the gunshot. Alice is _sure _of it. However, as is often the case, they had convinced themselves that they could not have _possibly _heard what they'd thought they'd heard (_A __**gunshot?**__ Here? At an Ascot soiree? Not likely...!_) and had gone back to their champagne and sherry and brandy and cognac.

No one had bothered Alice and Tarrant in the shadow of the terrace.

They'd sat in the darkness, leaning against the stone, their weapons cleaned and stowed safely away. They'd left Valereth's cane sword right where it lay. A groundskeeper or a gardener would find it later. (And, perhaps, keep it for himself.) Alice hadn't cared and Tarrant had refused to look in the thing's direction.

"Was I... dying?" she'd asked softly, unable to _not _confirm her suspicions.

"... _aye..._"

"And I told you that the Jabberwocky blood could..."

"Ye tol'me teh Move through Time." He'd sighed then. Heavily. "Were ye ne'er goin' teh tell me tha' th' blood o' th' Jabberwock coul'do tha'?"

"I'm sorry. Mirana confided it in me. It's a powerful secret."

"An' we'll keep it," he'd promised.

Alice had nodded and then huffed out a humorless laugh. "Yes. What's one more?" She'd leaned away from him then and had declared, "I'm ready to go home now."

He'd kissed her for that. And because their hearts had been entwined once more, the connection as strong as ever, he'd known she hadn't been speaking of her mother's house in London. No, the deep throb in her chest will only ever belong to Underland.

In the carriage ride home, Alice had asked, "What happened to our heart line earlier?"

And he'd explained this theory, his brogue thicker than ever and she'd taken his hand to ground him, to ground herself: "Aft'r I drank th'blood o'th'Jabberwock, I thought o'ye, dancin' with Ascot an' aft'r a spell, I found me-self there, watchin' ye... again. O'ly, 'twas nae right. _This_ mind an' tha' _body_ were nae meant fer each other... I s'ppose I had teh catch up teh Time again. Teh th'moment o' my drinkin' th'blood..."

"And Valereth? You were able to send him back... How did you know to do that?"

He'd clutched her to him with all his considerable strength. "B'cause I _felt _it, my Alice. Aft'r I drank it, I could _feel _Underland callin' teh me. Callin' me back. Withou'ye. It felt so... natural, easy teh say 'aye' an' follow tha' Call, an' I had teh fight against it." Her heart strains with the pulse of Tarrant's remembered panic. She rubs his back and he calms. Continues: "Valereth, bein' dead..."

"Wouldn't be able to fight it." She still wonders at that. Even though the man had been dead, the blood had worked. How is that possible? Doesn't the drinker have to _choose _where or when to go...? Or... could it have been some _other _power at work? Had Krystoval commanded the man's return somehow? But if so, why hadn't Maevyn been able to do that before?

In the carriage, Tarrant had somehow managed a weary chuckle. "Ye'll b'able teh ask yer questions soon, lass."

"Yes. Soon." Soon, the mirrors will be opened. Just as soon as Valereth's body is found, Alice is sure Mirana will want to check on them and will open the small mirrors in order to do so.

Upon arriving home, Mr. Brown opens the door for them, collects the walking stick Tarrant had accepted from Townsend and then takes Charles Kingsleigh's top hat from him. Alice keeps one arm wrapped – unseemly, her mother would say! – around her husband's waist. They nearly make it to the stairs (and she can feel his body trembling with exhaustion and shock and what she suspects must be the endless loop of a memory so horrible she can't even begin to fathom it) when Helen's voice stops them.

"How was the gala?"

Alice stares at her, mind utterly blank. Images flash through her mind: unbridled dancing, the poking of appetizers, Hamish's threat of awkward silence, Valereth's blade, Tarrant's body moving between hers and that _villain's_, the gun, the Jabberwocky's blood...

"I... It was..."

Very softly, Tarrant sobs out a shuddering sigh. She tightens her arm around him. It draws Helen's disapproving gaze – _Botheration!_ Now her mother will think Tarrant is _sloshed!_ – but Alice soldiers on: "Fine. It was fine. A success." The words are not _only_ for her mother. "It feels as though we've done what we've come here to do. We hope we won't be imposing on you for much longer, mother. Thank you for your hospitality."

She turns back toward the stairs and urges Tarrant to step up.

"Alice...?" Helen asks, her tone hurt and confused.

Alice sighs. "May we discuss this tomorrow?"

"Oh... yes... of course... Good night, dear. Tarrant."

And, bless him, Tarrant manages a perfectly enunciated and clear reply: "Thank you, madam. And a pleasant night to you as well. We apologize for keeping you up so very late."

Alice glances over her shoulder, notices her mother's surprised and speculative look, and gives her a tired smile. _That's right, mother, he's not drunk._

"Something at the party must have disagreed with him," Alice murmurs and Tarrant shivers.

Her mother nods, her gaze softening. "Shall I put some tea on?"

Alice smiles, _beams!_ "That's very..." Generous, forgiving, understanding... "... kind of you..."

Tarrant takes a deep breath and turns toward Helen. "Yes, _very _kind, madam. Thank you, but I'll be... that is, I'm sure this will... Tea would only... Pass," he decides, "it will pass... when it's ready to do so. And I'm afraid tea won't hurry it along."

Helen nods in reply. "In that case, rest well... and as long as you like. I'd like you to consider this your home as well."

Alice fidgets at the reminder of her hasty promise to vacate the premises. She doesn't doubt that the subject will be brought up again on the morrow. Alice hopes that, by then, both she and Tarrant will have gotten a good night's sleep.

They don't.

Once in bed, in the darkness and relative silence of mid night, Tarrant clings to her, shudders. He tries to control the sobbing breaths his recollections force out of him, but can't.

"Tell me?" she requests more than once.

"I cannae. Please, Alice. I cannae" is all he says in reply.

Time passes, exhaustion takes her away into sleep. Tarrant follows her and she knows this because his nightmare wakes her before it does him. Terror and desolation and pure _denial_ pull her into wakefulness and her hands are pressed against his cheeks before she knows it.

"Tarrant! Wake up! _Wake up!_"

And when he does – gasping, shivering, sobbing – he clutches her to him. He checks her hands, kisses her fingertips, massages her stomach... She suspects he would have moved down in bed and nuzzled it if not for the fact that he'd have to release her to do so.

"I wish I could share that memory with you," she whispers into his hair, hating that he's so alone in that moment that had happened-and-then-had-been-undone.

"No, Alice," he croaks into her shoulder. "No, I couldn't bear it if you _Knew_ what I've seen... I wouldn't...!"

"Shush..." she croons, rubbing his back, his sides, his shoulders, and _hates _that he's forced to bear yet _another _Tragedy. Even if it's only permitted an existence within the realm of his mind. "Shush. I'm here. We're fine. We're both fine. You saved us, my Champion... my Champion..."

And the night wears on. He urges her to sleep yet refuses to release her. Sometimes she manages to drift off in his warm, sometimes-shifting embrace. And she's awakened by his panic, both when he's awake and asleep.

It's one of the longest nights of Alice's life.

And the next day isn't much better.

They spend the morning in bed.

"Help me think of names," she asks at one point, eager to distract him from the memories. "What do you think of Freya or Persephone if it's a girl? Orion or Gabriel if it's a boy?"

Tarrant places a hand over her belly. "Alice, ye ken 'tis impossible fer _me_ teh help ye _think._"

"I believe in impossible things," she reminds him and earns a weak giggle.

Alice manages to coax him into the bath and he looks better for it after the lingering scents of the party and... other events washed away.

"Sometimes I still see it," he whispers when it's her turn to bathe and he's helping her rinse her hair – a much less arduous task than it is in his case. "When the light falls just so or your hands move and tilt just like..." He shivers. "I'm mad, Alice."

She catches his hand in hers. "Maybe we both are. What do you see?"

"Yer blood, Alice. Red..."

"There's no blood now."

"I know... but..."

Alice sighs.

She's brushing Tarrant's mostly-dry tangled hair – after he'd admitted to being far too tired to bother with it himself – when the small looking glass on the table, the one Mirana had given them, shimmers and a small scroll rises up through it then flops over and rolls across the vanity. Neither of them are at their best so it takes a moment for Alice to really understand what had just happened.

She reaches over his shoulder and picks up the note. Opens it.

And reads.

* * *

[End of Chapter 15: Scene 1 of 4]


	109. Book 3, A New Beginning, 2 of 4

_**Chapter Fifteen: A New Beginning  
**_

[Scene 2 of 4]

Tarrant Hightopp knows his limits. He'd found them once – Horvendush Day! – and again – Frabjous Day and Alice fading into nothing before his very eyes! – and again – the duel against that slithy Oshtyer! – and again – the Trial of Threes and seeing her there, at the mercy of the Jabberwock – and again...

There are too many to count. Too many times he's lost or nearly lost the only people – no, the only _person_ – he loves. Tarrant Hightopp knows his limits.

And he's reached them yet again.

All night, his mind had been pushed and pulled between the memory that hadn't come to pass and the sight and feel and scent of his wife in his arms, safe! And he'd realized that he would do – will do! – _anything _to keep his Alice. Keep her alive, safe...

Even...

He sighs.

"Tarrant?" He doesn't look up as the bed dips – when had he moved here from the dressing table bench? He can't recall... – and a warm, Alice-weight leans against his arm. "Did you hear what I said?" she asks with a worried frown.

_Worried._ His Alice is _worried! _About _him!_

_Ge'yerself tehgether, lad!_

He shakes his head smartly. "I'm so sorry, Alice. No, I didn't. And I'm afraid we're all out of Jabberwock blood so I can't go back through Time to listen to what you'd said the first time."

"It's all right. I don't mind saying it again: they found Valereth; Maevyn is already feeling better; and we can go home anytime we want."

He considers that information and, looking up at Alice again when he believes he's assimilated and stowed it all properly in his mind, asks, "Has the Oraculum unrolled, then?"

"Not yet. Mirana says that's because they're not deep enough yet. Whatever that means."

"Ah... Ingenious. The Masters are moving Underland."

"Moving it _where?_"

"More _under._"

"Oh... But that's fine, isn't it? We can go back now. Mirana will reopen the mirror in my old room and then...!" She beams at him and despite the heaviness in his chest, Tarrant feels his own lips twitch helplessly in response. "Isn't that wonderful?"

"I... yes, yes, it is."

She leans back a bit and frowns worriedly again. He looks away, glances around as if seeking something that might whisk those worrisome worries away.

"But you're not pleased," she informs him.

His fingers curl until his hands are fisted on his thighs. He knows if he allows them to remain open one moment longer, he'll be reaching for her and with the intensity of his emotions right now, he fears leaving bruises in his wake.

"Talk to me. _Please_," she begs. _Begs!_

_Jus' look a'wha'ye're doin' teh yer Alice, lad!_

She gently cups his jaw in her hands and turns his face toward her. He's scaring her. He can Feel it. "I'm so sorry, Alice. I don't mean to... I don't wish to... I'm so sorry."

"What?" she prompts.

He hesitates. Wonders if Now is the time to speak of the Thoughts he's been considering during his waking moments, ever since... in the shadow of the terrace... when she'd... and he'd... and they'd felt their littlin's Futterwhacken and then...

"Alice?"

"Yes?"

He winces at her over-eager tone. He feels truly Guilty for worrying her, waking her at all hours – _all his fault!_ – but this is not the Time for berating himself! (That will come Later!) Right Now, there is something... something more important than even that!

He clears his throat, stares at his still-fisted hands, and says, "Alice... how far would you go for..."

"For what?" she urges when his voice mysteriously fails him.

Tarrant turns, looks her in the eyes. "For me."

She rubs her thumbs against his skin and then pushes her hands gently into his hair, bracing his neck between her palms. "I would do _anything _for you."

"An'," his voice warps around the knot in his throat. "If'n 'twas sommat ye di'nae wan'tae do yerself?"

"Tell what you need."

_Need..._ He closes his eyes, swallows. Once again, his Alice's choice of words is uncannily accurate. "I need ye teh be all righ', Alice. E'en if it means..." Tentatively, he lifts his hands to hers and holds her touch against his skin, begs her not to let go of him, pleads with her not to stop holding onto him. He repeats, "E'en if it means stayin'ere. Wi'yer Mam an' sister. 'Til our littlin's born."

"I... what?" She had not expected That. He can see it in her expression, Feel it in his skin.

Tarrant looks away, clears his throat, lisps, "I know you want to go home, Alice." _So do I!_ he doesn't say. "But, I can't lose you... again. And this birthing business," he briefly struggles against the Burning he's been trying so desperately to hold back ever since the Thought of this monumental Risk had occurred to him. He struggles... and he loses: "Our littlin's birthing could be _dangerous!_ And what if you need a _doctor_ or you start _bleeding_ and what would I be able to do to _save_ you and what does the queen know about Uplanders and what if I _lose you both, Alice, and I can't lose you __**both! **__**Not again!**_"

He grits his teeth, struggles against the returning tide of memory, of Alice's blood and her weakening breaths and evidence of their child's life and her _dying in his arms and __**he couldn't stop it AND...!**_

"**...**_**please.**_" That's all he trusts himself to say.

Her fingertips stir, massaging the corded muscles beneath the taut skin at the base of his skull. "All right," she says.

For a moment, he can't believe it had been that easy. He looks into her eyes. "All right?" he confirms.

She nods. "Yes, but... where will you be?"

The hesitance in her voice pulls a pang of panic from him. "With you!" he fairly shouts back, startled and upset.

She relaxes, releases a long-held breath.

"Alice..." A dry sob escapes his lips before he even feels it coming. "Ye think I'd let ye... stay _Here_ wi'out _me?_"

"Think? No," she answers, leaning into him. "Fear? Maybe a little."

He hauls her onto his lap and shakes his head against her shoulder. Her arms wrap around his neck. Her palms draw circles against his back. "I cannae be wi'out ye, Alice. Ne'er ask it o'me. If'n ye do, I'll no'be able teh do it."

"Nor could I."

Her voice, so soft yet full of Everything, shores him up. He's not fool enough to believe that he's healed – that he'll _ever _be healed completely – but his Alice sustains him, gives him the will to do what must be done, gifts him with the sanity necessary for doing it.

"So we'll stay," he decides. "Until the littlin's born."

"I want Mirana to come through the looking glass for that," she bargains. "Just in case."

"Aye. Agreed. An' we'll have an Upland doctor here 'swell."

"Ugh. I hate physicians."

"Alice..." he says warningly.

She sighs. "All right. A physician _and_ Mirana."

He presses his lips to the fabric covering her heart. "Thank you."

She combs her fingers through his hair for several long moments. "Of course, this means we're going to have to tell Mirana about the baby..."

"Aye," he agrees and then hears himself giggle. "I'll leave that teh ye – ye can explain why ye waited so long teh tell her."

Alice huffs. "I suppose I deserve that. Are you sure you don't want to be there? Just to watch?"

"Mayhap I will, seein' as how ye've just invited me teh."

She snorts and pinches him under the arm.

He yelps.

And then, "Tarrant... could I ask a favor of _you?_"

He leans back and waits.

She draws in a deep breath. "You realize we'll be here for... months. Waiting?"

Tarrant nods.

"So, in that case, I think you'll need something to occupy your time. During the day."

"What do you have in mind?" he asks slowly, the brogue disappears right long with his playfulness.

She smiles. "Well, after the baby's born, it's going to be a while yet before I can resume my post as Queen's Champion. I'll need a temporary replacement."

"Will you?"

"Um hm. And he'll need to be in fit condition."

"Is that so?"

"And it might be nice if he spent his time learning a new skill to teach me when I'm ready to start training again."

"Like what?"

Alice smiles. "I'm sure Hamish will have a suggestion. When he makes it, say 'yes', all right? For me?"

Tarrant grins. "I suppose I can do that. But... Alice?"

She answers his suddenly somber expression with a worried frown. "Yes?"

"You would... trust me to look after the queen for you?"

Alice blinks at him and he feels a twinge of surprise deep within his chest. "Tarrant, I've been meaning to ask you to for... a while now," she replies. "But, if I understand events correctly, I have _already _trusted you with the life and wellbeing of _our child_." She regards him very seriously. "Name one person who is more important than that."

"I can't," he admits, smiling again.

"Then there's your answer," she concludes and he accepts her brief kiss as a reward.

And when she leans back, he sees her eyes are sparkling with mischief and her lips are stretched into one of his favorite smiles: the smugly victorious one.

She informs him: "You're going to be a father. It's high time I started letting you enjoy that, don't you think?"

He feels his eyebrows twitch upward and can only imagine the hopeful look on his face. It must be rather Something because Alice laughs, kisses him again, and declares in capital letters he can Hear quite clearly:

"Starting Right Now."

* * *

[End of Chapter 15: Scene 2 of 4]


	110. Book 3, A New Beginning, 3 of 4

_**Chapter Fifteen: A New Beginning  
**_

[Scene 3 of 4]

"Tarrant, have you quite recovered from last night?"

"Oh, yes! Thank you, madam. As Alice suspected, one of those suspicious food items must have Disagreed with me." And, had they been creations of Thackery's they very well _might _have Disagreed with him! Most vehemently and on a variety of topics! Noisy things, a March Hare's Appetizers for Special Occasions!

"They tend to do that" had been her surprising agreement.

"Now, Alice. You can't seriously be considering going back to wherever it is you've come from!" Mrs. Kingsleigh had blustered by way of a proper greeting. "You've only just arrived and, quite frankly, I'm not prepared to start missing you again!"

"All right."

"And another thing, young lady, I—!" Helen had paused, backed up a step and continued, "I beg your pardon?"

"All right. We'll stay if you'll still have us. We talked about it and..." Alice had glanced at Tarrant who had given her an encouraging nod and a smile that had been so wide he could feel it stretching his cheeks. "We have something to tell you, actually."

"Yes? What is it?"

Tarrant had taken his cue and pulled out her chair. "Perhaps you'd like to sit down first, madam?"

_Watch that grin, lad. Ye're goin'teh smile yerself right inteh a Fit...!_

Mrs. Kingsleigh hadn't made it as far as the chair before – having taken one look at Alice's lopsided grin and a second at the beamish expression Tarrant could feel (_still!_) on his own face – guessing the very news they'd been about to impart: "You're expecting!"

"Yes! Alice, your mother is _most _talented at guessing Things!" Tarrant had heard himself crow in delight. "I suspect she's who you get it from! How do you suppose she knew?"

Fighting a smile, Alice had replied, "It couldn't _possibly _be from that _huge _Papa Grin on your face, could it?"

"Huge Papa?" he'd echoed. "Alice, I assure you, I am of quite average height."

And then Alice had laughed and Tarrant had Known that everything would be all right.

And, for the most part, everything is.

Questions had been asked:

"What month are you?"

"Have you seen a physician yet?"

"You'll be staying until both you and the baby are strong enough to travel, won't you?"

"Just where is this country you've come from, Alice?"

And answered:

"Oh, um, nearly to the fourth month, I suppose..."

"Er, yes, I have seen a physician..." Tarrant had held his tongue at the lie. But, no, Alice hadn't _Lied_ for they'd "seen" a physician at the Ascots' country estate, on his way out as they'd arrived for the second meeting with Townsend. Still, that had _not _been what Mrs. Kingsleigh had meant _at all!_

"Well, actually, the journey back isn't very arduous..."

"Oh, it's here and there. Couldn't possibly be found on a map, so don't bother with the atlas, mother, please."

And Others had been Notified:

"_Alice!_ You're...! But your husband can't even properly support _you!_" Tarrant had overheard Margaret object. Yet again, he'd found himself eavesdropping on a private conversion of which he had been the topic of discussion.

"His trade already places a heavy burden on you financially and socially...!"

"No, it doesn't. Not where we live. Tarrant is very fortunate in his position. He's employed by the queen's court and, for the most part, the work is light. He's well-compensated for his efforts."

"Court?" Margaret had echoed and Tarrant had briely debated whether or not to take offense at her obviously startled tone. But then he'd reminded himself that the only examples of his work she's seen are Alice's hat and his own. "So _that_'s why mother didn't look upset when I..."

Alice had allowed the guilt from her sister's admission to fill the room. "Told her that Tarrant's a milliner? I expected you would mention it to her."

"But she already knew."

"Tarrant told her himself."

"He didn't have to. He could have left her to assume that his title was..."

"But it's not and he wouldn't lie about that. Not to his wife's mother." There'd been a long pause and Tarrant had wondered if he might be able to (finally!) interrupt tactfully and announce tea, but... Alice had whispered, "He's the last of his family... well, the last surviving _adult_." He'd imagined Alice's hand pressed against her belly then. "At the moment. But, one day, when we've managed to rebuild Hightopp Village, we'll have those responsibilities to deal with. And... I must admit: I'm not looking forward to that... change."

Somehow, the silence that had followed had been filled with hope, confidence, promise. "You'll do fine, Lady Hightopp. As will your lord-tailor-husband. He's very... honorable."

And because nearly anything Alice might have said in reply would have merely drawn attention to the many shortcomings of Lord Manchester, Tarrant had chosen _that _moment to noisily stumble into the room and inform them of tea in the drawing room.

For that, Alice's smile had been one of relief, hope, and love.

But the Notifications had not ended there:

"You. Are. With. Child?" Mirana had asked, half-in and half-out of the free-standing looking glass in Alice's childhood bedroom, each and every word on an evenly spaced breathless-sounding sigh.

"Yes."

Tarrant had never seen the queen's dark eyes flash with fury before. "And you did not see fit to inform me of this before I'd made my request for you to travel Up Here?"

"How would that have changed anything?" Alice had asked, albeit in a chastened tone that Tarrant had enjoyed just a bit More Than He Should Have. "You would have still had to ask me to go. Are you truly angry with me for trying to spare you that additional responsibility?"

And the queen had actually glared! "I suppose I can't be. But I won't be forgiving you for withholding this from me so soon, Alice." And then she'd looked from her Champion to him – her Hatter – and then back to Alice again, her pale face softening with disappointment and sorrow. "I'd thought, as your friend, you would have wanted to share your joy with me..."

Alice had winced. "Um..."

"Although, I suppose I should have known, what with Chessur going on about how I must be running short of Himoha flower but not saying a thing as to _why..._"

Tarrant had _heard_ Alice grit her teeth. "I'll have Words with that cat when I get back!"

_Oh, iambic pentameter!_

But before he'd been able to draw their attention to the verse, the queen had turned on him: "And Tarrant...! Why would _you_ wish to keep this from me?"

"_He_ didn't," Alice had bravely admitted.

"Ah. I see. In _that _case... however did you manage to keep yourself from running through the halls, shouting the news from the top of your lungs?" the queen had mused aloud, still addressing him.

"I very nearly did just that! Several times!" Instead, he'd had to rely on his Alice to help him channel the energy into less... disruptive pursuits. He'd grinned at Those Memories.

"I didn't want to give up my position until it was absolutely necessary," Alice had explained. "So..."

"So you asked poor Tarrant to keep the news to himself. And, of course, he did. Oh, _Alice...!_"

The White Queen had glared.

Alice had fidgeted.

Tarrant, having decided that his Alice had suffered enough, had cast about for a way to break the awkward silence... a way that hadn't involved iambic pentameter, which he'd been sure would _not _have been Appreciated at that moment.

He'd heard himself say, "We felt the first Futterwhacken just the other evening!" He had even successfully avoided thinking about the specifics of That Evening in particular.

"Oh, that _is _wonderful! Congratulations, both of you! So, the child is to be...?"

"A Hightopp. Not a Kingsleigh," his wife had confirmed. (_And, oh what a Discussion __**that **__had been at the time!_)

"Oh, I see. So, you'll be returning to Mamoreal shortly?"

"Well, actually..."

"I have concerns about Alice's health, Your Majesty. I'm worried... that, well..."

"Tarrant fears I might have trouble during the labor and will need medical assistance."

Mirana had agreed, looking worried, "Yes, our healers _here_ – myself included – won't know anything about Uplandish mothers should youexperience difficulties."

"But I'll need someone from Underland to come through to help with the birth... you know... just in case..."

"Ah! I see. Yes, your Uplander physicians won't know the first thing about Outlandish babies now, will they?"

Tarrant hadn't considered That! He'd merely assumed...

_What? Tha' th'blue blood woul'nae make any difference? Or th'changin' eyes? Or th'—!_

"Yes, exactly," Tarrant had agreed, suddenly understanding why Alice had demanded the White Queen be present for the Main Event, "which is why we'd like to ask you to assist Alice. When the time comes."

"Which I will be more than happy to provide, but A~_lice..._"

"Er... yes?"

"No more of this 'I can manage by myself' business. When you go into labor, I expect to be notified _immediately!_"

"You know me so well," Alice had grumbled.

"Yes, I do. Are we in agreement?"

"We are."

After a moment of heavy silence, Mirana had reluctantly admitted, "I _am _glad you told me. _Finally._"

Alice's laugh had been a little forced. "I'll be glad when you finally forgive me for keeping it a secret for so long." And the queen had managed a smile that had hinted at the possibility of Alice being forgiven... someday... in the Distant Future.

"But, there is one other thing... Krystoval. I know our staying here, in this land, is causing the Jabberwocky to be ill..."

"Krystoval is holding up just fine. If anything changes, I shall let you know. Do not concern yourself with that when you have much more important things to sort out."

Alice had sighed yet again. "I do, don't I? My mother is going to require an explanation. For a lot of things. Especially if you come through the mirror on a moment's notice to help me through the labor."

"How about the truth?"

Alice had blinked at her. "The truth? No. No, impossible."

"How odd," Mirana had replied with a sad smile, "that you should allow impossibility to defeat you now, my Champion. It never has before."

Tarrant had suggested, "You might be surprised, you know, Alice. She _may_ be able to understand."

Still, he could see Alice's resistance to the perfectly sound idea.

"Dearest Alice, my closest friend," Mirana had spoken up, "do not lose your muchness now. Be with your family, share this miracle with them, even if that means revealing Underland. For once this adventure is over, they will expect certain things from you, will they not? Now that they know you survived the sinking of your ship?"

"Yes..."

"Then. In that case, as a wise friend once counseled me, 'Begin as you mean to go.'" Mirana had winked. "And we all know that lies, even white ones, cause more problems than they solve."

"Indeed, they do!" Tarrant had been unable to _not _concur.

"So, you both will remain Here, for the time being," the queen had decreed. "You shall both be missed terribly, but it's quite obvious that you have things you must do and questions you must answer."

"Botheration, I suppose so," Alice had huffed. "Why do you always have to be _right?_"

"Because I'm the queen," Mirana had replied. "Or didn't you hear the coronation announcement?"

"My invitation must've gotten lost along the way."

"A pity. I'll issue you another."

"You're too kind."

"Only sometimes, dear Alice."

And then, with an air of finality, the queen had bid them farewell: "Do not hesitate to call upon me should you have need of me!"

She'd held out her hand to Tarrant, which he'd bowed low over, then had dragged Alice into her arms for a brisk hug. And, an instant later, the looking glass had rippled and then smoothed flat again.

"Alice," Tarrant had said, wrapping an arm around her.

"Yes?"

He'd giggled. "I don't mind telling you that I _truly Enjoyed _that."

"I thought you might" had been her droll, but light-hearted reply. "And should you ever wonder whether or not I truly love you or would do anything for you..."

"I shall remember this afternoon, my Alice, and it will – most hastenly! – put my irrational fears to Rest."

"Just so," she'd replied, smiling.

And, from that day onward, things are different. New. Begun a-new. A new beginning. Why, even schedules had been arranged to keep him Busy:

"Hightopp, Alice has ordered us to—"

"_Hamish!_ I did no such—"

"Oh, I do _beg _your pardon, _your majesty_."

Tarrant had swallowed a giggle at the glare Alice had directed at Ascot over the tea service. Tarrant had chosen that moment to shift, to feel her knee press against his beneath the table.

"Hamish," Helen had interjected delicately. "I'm sure Alice is fully aware of how... demanding a character she possesses."

"Indeed you are correct, madam," he'd allowed.

Margaret had smiled. "But that's why we adore you so much, dear sister."

For some reason, the comment had drawn a mocking smile across Alice's lips.

"Ahem. As I was saying, Hightopp, Alice has _decreed_ that I'm to take you to the club for fencing lessons. I've a membership, you know."

"But the question is: have you ever used it before?" Alice had challenged over the rim of her teacup.

"Of course. I even know the way there!" he'd sniffed. "So. Tomorrow. Following lunch, sir. _We_ have an appointment with a pair of fencing foils. Or else Queen Alice, here, shall be _most_ displeased."

"Oh, stop being such an ogre, Hamish Ascot," Margaret had declared. "And pass the scones before I toss a sugar cube at you!"

At _that _particular comment, neither Tarrant nor Alice had been able to withhold their snickers.

And also correspondence with friends in Mamoreal had begun:

"Another note to you." Tarrant had handed it over with a large, toothy smile. "From Mally."

"_Again?_"

"It appears she has quite A Lot To Say to you regarding a certain secret you kept from her."

"_We _kept from her."

"_You asked me _to keep from her."

"I wish she didn't appreciate that distinction so much."

Correspondence of All Kinds had begun to... pop through the small Mamoreal mirror, actually:

_Plop!_

"Did you hear that?"

"The plopping noise?"

"Um, yes. Is it coming from...?"

_Plop!_

"The vanity? I believe it is, Raven. Ah! Spinach puffs from Thackery! I sent him my observations you know. Here, give it a try!"

"You go ahead. I'll catch the next one he tosses through."

_Plop!_

Yes, in a matter of days, Tarrant's world has been completely Changed.

The Good Things are plentiful.

Unfortunately, so are the Bad...

* * *

[End of Chapter 15: Scene 3 of 4]


	111. Book 3, A New Beginning, 4 of 4

**Warning:**** This entry is rated M for sensuality, nudity, and non-explicit sexual situations. **

******ALSO: **This scene has been edited to comply with this site's rating policies. The original NC-17 version is available on my homepage for readers who are OF AGE. See my FFnet author's profile for the link. Thank you.******  
**

* * *

_**Chapter Fifteen: A New Beginning  
**_

[Scene 4 of 4]

Alice gasps awake on a rush of terror.

_The nightmare again,_ she realizes as she pats Tarrant's cheek, shakes his shoulder, whispers his name in the darkness.

With a violent start, he opens his eyes. Unlike all the other nights, he does not curl himself around her. His hands seek out hers and his fingertips ghost over her knuckles and in the sensitive spaces between, but he does not grasp or clutch at her. Not this time. Not after a week of suffering in the dark.

"I'm sorry I woke you, Alice," he sighs and in his voice Alice hears something different. After the first nightmare, she'd heard panic and fear. On the nights following that, his tone had changed to guilty and then accepting. Tonight, however, she hears something new. Something Bad:

Resignation.

Something _must_ be done about this! For Tarrant is not recovering – not _truly –_ despite his bubbly cheer during the day. She can only assume the heart line and his new role as a recognized, expectant father are saving him from the madness. Or worse: the Blackness.

"These dreams won't haunt you forever," she whispers.

He takes a deep breath. "They will." He speaks with gravity and certainty. She doesn't doubt he also speaks from experience. "They're memories, Raven. Haunting is what memories do best."

"Tell me about them," she asks, without any real hope of him agreeing to do so. She's argued and debated and cajoled on this point to no avail; he will not share his terrible burden with her. Tonight is no different:

"No, Alice. Please. Ask me for anything else."

"All right." Alice sits up in bed, leans over and lights the oil lamp on the sideboard. As she knows she can't _force _him to divulge that unmade future... "If you won't tell me what you see, then tell me what reminds you of it. Permit me that much, please."

He takes an unsteady breath. "The shadows. Your hands. Fingers. Curling, grasping..." He closes his eyes, shakes his head.

Alice watches him for a moment, contemplating something she normally would not. Something she is not sure will work. Something she _shouldn't _do in her mother's house. Something she's willing to risk nonetheless.

She rolls away, stands, removes her nightgown, turns down the lamp until the room is as mysteriously shadowed as the Ascots' terrace had been, and leans over him.

"Alice?" he whispers, watching as she climbs onto the bed, sits on top of the quilt and straddles his hips. "What are you...?"

"Look at me," she replies, knowing there is _just _enough light for her request to be possible.

"I am."

"What do you see?"

She doesn't wait for him to answer. She can see it in the softening of his gaze as he studies the gently glowing light against her skin. Alice collects his hands and presses them to her naked belly.

She asks, "What do you feel?"

She leans over him, deliberately reaches for him until her fingertips touch his chest. He shudders, closes his eyes.

"Look at me," she reminds him.

After a moment, he does.

"Watch my hands."

She sees him swallow and then his eyelids lower as he obeys her command. Against his chest, Alice curls her fingers until they become claws. She softly – but not so softly it tickles! – drags her nails across his skin.

"What do you see?" she asks.

He shivers. "Alice..."

"My hands are fine. Just fine. Do you see that? Do you see me? Feel me? _This _is real," she asserts in a low tone.

"Real," he agrees, watching her hands open, reach, curl, and scratch across his skin. Against her belly, his fingers splay wider. She gently claws his chest again just as their child fidgets, flutters, Futterwhackens against his palms.

His breath catches. As does Alice's. Truly, she'll never become used to the sensation: where a Kingsleigh baby would have kicked, punched, and shifted, a Hightopp baby _dances_ and _twirls _like a mad dervish. Perfectly normal, Tarrant had told her, looking shocked at her surprise as he'd done so.

"This is real," she repeats, marveling again at the miracle they've created between the two of them.

"Yes," he agrees, his eyes closing as he concentrates on the feel of their child moving against his hands, on the feel of her hands moving over him. Alice allows him to surround himself with that darkness, to test himself.

When he opens his eyes, he focuses on her hands. She holds them up, over his chest, splays her fingers then curves them, reaches for him. This time, when he takes a deep breath, she recognizes the gasp. The Desire.

"Tarrant?" she asks.

"This is real," he answers.

"Yes, it is."

"I'm going to be a..." Still, he doesn't say the word. With a start, she realizes she's never heard him do so. He's announced that _they _are expecting. He's declared that _Alice_ is with child. But he's never said that he's going to be...

"A father. Say it, love," she urges, petting his chest.

She watches his jaw clench. He squeezes his eyes shut. "A father," he whispers, a tremor wracking his body.

"Say it again. Let me hear it again..."

"I'm goin'teh b'a fa'her."

"Yes."

"Our littlin's Fa."

"Yes."

He opens his eyes. "'Tis real."

"Yes. It is."

"No one took ye from me."

She rubs her palms over his skin.

"Ye're no'dyin'..."

Alice brushes her thumbs over his nipples and his breath catches in his throat.

"Ye're safe. Our littlin's safe."

She nods.

"'Tis real."

"We've made it real," she whispers. "We've made this. This moment. This memory. Let go of that other one. Please."

His hands move from her stomach to her hips. "Alice..."

"I need you to be all right," she tells him. "Tell me what you need."

"Teh feel ye, teh have ye hold on teh me." His hips shift beneath her, Questioning, Asking...

She Answers. Alice pushes the bedclothes out of the way, tugs aside his night clothes. She places his hands on her bare hips again. "I need you to be all right. Show me what you need."

He does.

He pulls her toward him and she feels her weight pressing against his body – or does she feel his strength holding her up? But it doesn't matter, she realizes, as he pulls her down to him, until her skin meets his and her breasts are pressing down – or perhaps his chest is pushing up – and his lips brush over hers, dry and warm. Her own lips tingle at the sweet friction.

His arms wrap around her and his palms move over her back, rough and solid.

She holds onto him, curling her fingers over his shoulders, pulling herself even tighter against him. Their lips brush but do not cling. They've never embraced like this before, as if they might each sink into the other's skin on a sigh rather than a shout of passion.

The clock ticks. Time passes, whispers to Alice of _More_ and she wants that, but this is not about what she wants. This is about what he Needs.

"Alice..." he whispers and then opens his mouth against hers. She feels his tongue brush between her lips, which she opens. She returns the soft caress, agrees to _other _touches...

She holds onto him in every way. She wraps herself around every part of him she can manage to grasp and protects him from those inconceivably horrifying memories he cannot speak of or share. Here, now, she is his Champion although she does not hold a weapon, does not fight.

She simply holds onto him, just as he'd asked.

And, in exchange for this comfort, he attends to her.

"Tarrant," she breathes. "I need you."

And she does _Need _him. In so many ways. He indulges her in this one. And she gladly loses herself in his touch.

And when she opens her eyes and arrives back in her own mind, in their bed, in their room, Tarrant is still there, waiting for her once again.

Yes, he had seen to her desire, but his own... She whispers, frowning, "You didn't..."

He shakes his head, kisses the corner of her mouth. "I d'nae need to."

Need. Again, that word.

She would have shivered if her body were capable of it. "Are you all right?" she manages, weakly wrapping her arms around his shoulders.

"Aye. Fer nauw, aye..."

She closes her eyes, fights exhaustion. "And if you need me..."

"I'll tell ye, my Alice."

"And you'll show me what...?"

"I need," he finishes. "I will. And whate'er ye need, we will."

She feels him settle into bed beside her, reach for the lamp and, moments later, she's sucked into the darkness of sleep.

And there are no more nightmares that night.

* * *

Notes:

1. OK, I am totally NOT a fan of sexual-healing-an-orgasm-can-fix-anything philosophy, but I think being with someone, without anything in the way (like nightgowns which Alice has taken to wearing because her pj trousers are getting a mite tight at this point) and just _feeling_ their body, _experiencing_ their warmth can be healing and reassuring, which is what I'm trying - in my usual fumbling way - to express here. Tarrant needs to know - deep down in his heart/mind/madness _Know_ - that Alice is OK and alive and safe and still with him, still his Alice. So, if you tell me the sex was lacking, yeah, I know. Because it's _not about sex_. It's about **affirmation**. (^_^)

2. I did ZERO research on how to best treat people who suffer from PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder) but Tarrant is going through that at the moment and this scene is about Alice helping him confront his memories and fear and gain some control over them. This does not mean that Tarrant's struggle is over. He still has at least one more stage of grief to get through (so far he's hit shock/numbness, depression, and denial) before he'll truly be on the mend.

3. And if you're curious, **OPK: Book 3** is a total of 21 chapters plus an epilogue... so there's quite a bit of story left to tell. (^_^)

* * *

[End of Chapter 15]


	112. Book 3, Progress and Productivity, 1

_**Chapter Sixeen: Progress and Productivity  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

Sometimes he still Sees her blood on his hands.

Tarrant flinches away from the sight of his own fingers and palms and cannot-possibly-be-stained! cuffs. It's the angle of the light. Or perhaps the shape of a shadow. Or maybe the glimpse of something _innocently_ red out of the corner of his eye... But that's all it takes for him to See it again: Alice's blood – red, red, red! – on his hands.

The silence doesn't help. Neither does idleness. He needs distractions! Occupations!

He reaches for Alice's hat and examines the mooring of the dodo feathers. She'd left it behind today, had specifically asked him to take a look at it and mend it if necessary. He focuses on the task, and on her Presence within him. He wants to Reach for her, to Touch her heart and feel her Reply, but...

_Alice is working now!_

Yes, another meeting with the railway. Details to be finalized. Dates to be set. Supplies and materials to be ordered – and this is an area especially requiring attention now that the chief logistics man seems to have inexplicably disappeared! There's also a digging crew to be recruited and trained. Those sorts of things.

And, anyway, why would he bother her with... with this... _nothingness_? This... this _need _to touch her, to know that she is alive and safe and Here and With Him and...!

He shakes his head. Decisively.

_Stop this, lad. It's been nearly a fortnigh' since tha'... 'Tis time teh pull i'tehgether!_

He's trying.

_Put yer back inteh it!_

He has.

_'Tis as easy as believin' ye'll be righ'tas warm summer rain on th'morrow!_

He doesn't think he will be...

This injury, this hurt, this tragedy goes Deep. Deeper than he's felt in such a long time. Sharper than even the worst of his pains. Worse than Horvendush Day. Not that the attack and the deaths of his family and the innocents from the other Clans hadn't been horrific. It had been! Still is! But now, _now...!_

He puts the hat down before he surrenders to the need to tear something apart with his bare hands. He turns his back on it for good measure. He even feels himself Seeking out his wife and has to strangle the inclination before he interrupts her meeting with those boorish bureaucrats.

Tarrant closes his eyes, focuses on the strong, steady pulse around his own heart.

_Alice..._

He'd almost lost her. His Alice. Their littlin'...!

Yes, the memory of what had happened before he'd twisted Time is so much _Worse_ than that Horvendush Day. So much Worse all because of the existence of two small words that he has never applied so totally and absolutely to anything in his life: _his_ Alice and _their _littlin'... _His _and _theirs._

"Mine and ours," he murmurs to the overcast sky that hangs over the darkening city like a cat too lazy to evaporate. "Chessur could teach you a thing or two," he informs the clouds.

They don't answer him. Nothing here does. Not the doorknobs or the dogs or the dust rags. He sits down on the bed in this flat, grey world and wonders how Alice had survived a childhood here with her imagination and curiosity in tact.

Or, perhaps not so much in tact, but _starved...!_

Yes, it's no wonder she'd chosen Underland over this... place. It's no wonder she wants to return.

He wishes it were possible to do just that!

He sighs and glances down.

Flinches at the blood that's _not _on his hands.

Resigns himself to enduring the subtle torture of his memories.

He wanders from the bedroom and downstairs into the library where he aimlessly flips through the pages of whatever book snags his listless attention.

She finds him there, standing in front of the book stacks with a tome in his hands, when she returns. He's not sure how late it is when that happens. It's dark outside.

"Tarrant?" she asks, placing a hand on his shoulder.

He blinks, stares at the illustration open on the page before him: a depiction of a child in the womb. He recalls the book's title – _A Compendium of Surgery_ – and recalls opening it to this page, as if directed by Fate...

But no, there is no Fate here. None that _he _recognizes at any rate! For what sort of being would permit a woman who carries a child to be _**slain**_ by a... to be _foolish enough to __**risk**_... to _**allow**__ herself to be...?_

"How coul'ye do it?" he grates out, his expression grave one instant and furious the next. "How coul'ye risk our littlin's life th'way ye did? Followin' me out onteh tha' terrace knowin' Valereth 'as slurkin' abou' jus'waitin' teh..."

He can't even say the words.

And, when Alice seems to finally digest the source of his _rage_, when she finally formulates and answer, she cannot say the words, either. "I'm sorry you had to do... what you did. I am _truly _sorry, Tarrant."

And he Knows she is; he can Feel it. It doesn't make a bit difference, however.

"But it would have been impossible for me to do otherwise. You _know_ me. You _know_ my nature."

He makes a concentrated effort to calm himself. And is angered anew when he realizes he cannot manage it half as well as Alice can.

"I do," he agrees through gritted teeth. "I e'en encouraged ye teh b'come this way. _'Ye don' slay...'_ I said. _'Ye don'...'_"

"Stop," she says, raising her hands to his shoulders. "Stop, please. It was a long time ago. And you believed in me when no one else did, including myself." She shakes him gently. "You _Believed_ in me. You _gave_ me your _muchness_."

"Nay," he counters softly, feeling his anger transform into something softer and gentler under Alice's direction. Perhaps it is weak of him to give into it, to allow her to do this for him, but he can't resist. Doesn't _wish _to resist!

Tarrant slowly lifts his hands – no longer bandaged or be-thimbled Up Here – and frames her face in his palms. "I merely helped ye find yer own. Nae more than tha'." He takes a deep breath and sighs it out. "I'm sorry I shouted. I'm sorry..."

"Shush, it's all right. You're right to be angry with me. I've been monumentally foolish."

"Promise me ye willnae risk yer safety again," his whispers intently and then winces when he realizes what he'd just said.

_Ye fool! Ye swore ne'er teh ask her fer a Promise again!_

"I promise," she replies softly, "to always choose _us_."

He catches the distinction as easily as she catches the slight twitch of the muscles surrounding his right eye, but he doesn't argue. To do so would be futile. To ask for more would be to ask for the impossible.

His rage finally abandons him completely. He sighs. His shoulders slump. Alice removes the book from his hands and replaces it upon the shelf.

"Tarrant?"

He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his jaw. He swallows. "I'm sorry, Alice. I shouldn't have lost my temper with you. I..."

She waits, holds onto him while he struggles with words and thoughts and ideas and feelings and...

"I need you," he finally says. "Every day. Fer th' rest o'm'life. The madness ne'er really... I was stronger once, bu'nauw I cannae control it wi'out ye... I thought I was healed bu' I'm... ye're my Sanity, Alice, an' tha' moment... when I couldnae feel ye anymore... In an instan' I was Lost an'... an'..."

"And you saved us nonetheless," she interrupts, reaffirms her grip on his shoulders. "_You _saved _us._"

He shakes his head. His hands move to her sides, as if he needs to hold himself steady, as if the room rocks and sways like a boat in a storm as she is his only anchor. "I'm _Mad_, Alice. Irreparably. I'll ne'er be healed, be whole fer ye. An' if a mahn cannae b'angry o'er his own broken-ness then I d'nae ken wha' he _can_ rage o'er!"

"Tarrant," she whispers, stepping closer. Between them, the heart line weaves and twists as if it could shatter under the weight of their combined heartache. "We are _both_ broken. I... you have no idea how _frightened _I was when you were just suddenly... _Gone._ From my heart, from my sight, from the room and I... I... I'm not _The Alice_ without you. Perhaps I rely on you too much for strength, but I... I..."

Words appear to abandon her. But his Alice – his Champion! – she rushes after them and hauls them back!

"Fates, but I do _not _want to think about This!" Alice closes her eyes and mutters, "I've tried to _not _remember that... that moment of... _fear._ When the heart line just... _vanished._ When I couldn't... _feel _you anymore and..." Her fingers tighten on his shoulders. "I'd thought I was stronger – that I'd become stronger – than that! But... I wasn't. I'm _not._ I..."

Tarrant doesn't move, barely dares to _breathe._ Is it possible his Alice...?

She opens her eyes. Confesses: "I _Need _you just as much as you need me. For the rest of _our life._"

His answer is to lower his mouth to hers, to pull her close, to wrap his arms around her. He hears a soft noise rise up from her throat, a moan-ish breath and he doesn't care that they're in the library, that Alice's sister is due to arrive soon, that Hamish – who had accompanied Alice to that blasted meeting! – is no doubt waiting in the parlor with Helen, that dinner will begin on the hour...

Her arms tighten around his shoulders. Her fingers clench in his soft, wavy hair. Her body moves toward his in ways that are meant to drive him out of his mind! Their mouths devour each other's breaths and but for their bothersome clothing they can be no closer to each other – a situation he knows just how to address! Or, rather _undress_...

The sound of the door opening and a huffy exclamation of "Oh-dear-Lord!" finally manages to make an impression on both of them. Regretfully, Tarrant leans back, his fingertips brushing over the buttons of her dress and one of Alice's warm, skillful hands just an inch shy of Tarrant's belt.

"Impeccable timing, Hamish," Alice grumbles, sending a glare in his direction.

"You see? What did I tell you, madam? If we'd waited in another five minutes to fetch them for dinner, there's no telling what sort of impropriety we might have been subjected to!"

Margaret bites her lip to keep from laughing at Hamish's scandalized tone.

"Only five minutes?" Alice mutters and Tarrant giggles. With seven years of practice at it, undressing one's spouse as speedily and efficiently as possible becomes a source of pride!

She turns toward Hamish and accuses, "Next time, don't make it a point to play hide and seek in someone else's house and you won't risk being so offended!"

And, perhaps this is Not the Time for it, but Tarrant can't help the swell of masculine pride at the vehement way his wife prioritizes his touch, his kisses. Yes, his Alice _does_ need him. And she damns anyone who would judge her poorly for that!

"Alice! _Listen _to yourself! You are..." Hamish visibly searches for a term that is both an accurate description of their activities _and _something he can tolerate uttering aloud. "... _embracing_ in your mother's _library_. A common room of a residence not your own! Have you no shame?"

Tarrant watches as she pretends to consider that. "No, I don't believe I do."

"Yes, yes, I'm afraid we're both rather short on Shame. Bothersome fellow as he's often followed by Regret," Tarrant asserts, his eyes sparkling. "Or perhaps Embarrassment or both and an assortment of unpleasant Cousins until you've run out of teacups and serving sets!"

Alice chuckles and glances at him, grinning knowingly. Which, she really _shouldn't_ have done as that _particular _smile never fails to evoke certain reactions from him. For instance...

His mouth mindlessly presses against hers again, and she swiftly grants his tongue entrance and...!

"Alice, _please!_" Margaret announces on a laugh. "If you don't pry yourself away from your lord-tailor-husband, we shall leave you right here and start dinner without you!"

_That _gets Tarrant's attention! He pulls back and gently informs his wife, "You must eat, mogh'linyae."

And, miracle of miracles, his stubborn wife does _not _argue with him over it, despite the naughty sparkle in her dark eyes. Yet, it's that sparkle that renews his heart, calms him, reassures him...

His Alice is _safe_ and _well _and _Needs him _and their littlin' is _fine_ and occasionally _Futterwhackens_ beneath their hands, within her belly!

Tarrant grasps onto that sensation of... contentment and holds on as tightly as he can!

Sometimes, his grip is stronger than others, but – over the course of the following weeks – it slowly strengthens.

For the most part, he manages to quash the faint uprisings of uneasiness and frustration before they – twining together – grow too great for him to Contain. It is true that he will never be whole, be healed. He knows that it is the heart line and his Alice that hold him together: a mercury-less glue. He knows he will never survive her death.

But, at the very least, he'd like to be strong enough to control his own emotions! Well, _most_ of the time. Under _normal _circumstances!

They have tea with Townsend again and Tarrant points out the deeply interesting coincidence of the man's given name: "I suppose Fate has always meant for you to live in the country, sir. As you've been Sent from Town, Townsend."

Alice had snorted so hard she'd nearly dribbled tea on herself – poor timing, really, after all, he'd _warned_ her through the heart line not to take a drink right then – during his moment of Delightful Insight. Of course, she might have – must have! – misinterpreted the nudge he'd sent her.

Townsend had laughed. "Perhaps you are right, Tarrant. I wonder then, according to your name, what fate has planned for you?"

_Now __**that **__is something to ponder!_ Which he'd done during the carriage ride home as Alice had looked over the contracts Townsend had managed to convince her to review over for him:

"Truly, dear Alice, with a mind like yours applying itself to the task, I would feel much more confident about the venture."

She tries, his Alice. She truly does, but when he finishes his evening bath – again, she'd insisted he bathe first while she finished just one more section – Tarrant finds his wife slumped over the writing desk, her head pillowed in her arms. For a moment – a brief yet Eternal moment! – Tarrant thinks... fears... panics...!

And then her brows draw together and a small noise of distress escapes her lips.

_She's o'ly sleepin', lad._

Yes, yes. Sleeping. Or... nightmaring?

_'Tis yer own panic she's feelin'. Are ye tryin' teh wake her?_

What? No, no. Mustn't wake Alice. She needs the rest.

He lays a hand against her disheveled hair – longer now than it has been in years! – and calms himself. When she settles again, Tarrant carefully rolls her out of the stiff, wooden chair and into his arms. It's but two steps to the bed where he lays her down and attends to her shoes. Unfortunately, when he tries to pull them off, a great deal of force is required. Noticeable force.

"Hm? Tarrant?"

"I'm gettin' ye ready fer bed, love."

"Oh... sorry. Tired..."

The boots tumble to the floor and he gently rolls her onto her side so that he can get to the buttons of her dress. "'Tis all righ'. Sleep, Raven. Sleep."

She does.

He dresses her in a nightgown – his gaze lingering over the gentle, convex curve of her stomach – and then he tucks her into bed. He doesn't sleep, though. He's not tired yet. He sits beside her with her dress on his lap and looks over the seams before deciding they'll be too much trouble to let out. No, he'll simply have to send a request to the Royal Seamstress for another set of dresses. Alice will need them. Soon.

"I'm goin' teh be a fa'her," he muses softly, his gaze moving over Alice. Alice. His wife, his Champion, his lover, his Everything... even the mother of his child.

Tarrant clenches his fists, grits his teeth and tries not to wake her – again! – with emotional over-spillage. After a few moments, the Thought moves toward the back of his mind, and he lets out the breath he'd been holding. The sense of accomplishment is small, but it makes him smile.

"I'll be strong fer ye again, Alice. I _will._"

And his determination seems to be enough to drive away the nightmares – the _memories!_ – for another night. However, it cannot keep them away indefinitely. No, they sneak up on him at the worst possible times: at tea with Helen when Alice reaches across the table for the cream without bothering to ask him to pass it; in the bath when she stands up in the slippery tub without waiting for him to extend a hand to help her; when her stomach grumbles with hunger that she hadn't mentioned despite the fact that she must have been hungry for some time!

"Alice," he reminds her again and again. "You Promised to tell me when you needed something..."

"It's only a small thing," she answers with a smile.

Not for the first time (and certainly not the last!), he fits his palm against her belly and whispers, "'Tis th' little thin's I most wan'tae look after."

Sometimes, she lets him. And sometimes...

_Sometimes_... he has to _make _her let him.

"Honestly! I can run my own bathwater!"

"Tarrant, you don't have to rub my feet..."

"No, really, I can make up the tea tray. I was taught by a master, you know!"

"Stop. Please. There's no reason – no _rational _reason – for me to _not _go for regular walks in the park with Margaret!"

In that particular instance, Tarrant had replied, "Yes, yes, but the _name _of the park in question is most... unfortunate."

"Hyde Park?"

"Yes. _Hide!_ Who knows how many people have gone missing in such a place! Or what if you Call me and I'm unable to find you because the park has Hidden itself or—!"

"I don't panic whenever you go galumphing off with Hamish," she'd reminded him. Then had paused and, regarding him with a playfully suspicious look, had asked, "Or should I?"

Yes, perhaps he _is _a bit overprotective. But, considering recent events, Tarrant thinks he's entitled! And it's _doubly _annoying that his Alice rarely asks for anything. (Irritating in the extreme!) He would be happy to do-_make-_**_give!_** her whatever she wants.

Unfortunately, the only thing she's asked for is for him spend hours away from her, several times a week, engaging in utterly pointless exercise!

**Fencing.**

Tarrant sighs as he recalls the introductory lesson to this odd and poorly named activity.

The lecture had begun with: "Gentlemen, the point of swordsmanship—"

And had, from the onset, unfortunately lacked in both clarification and accuracy! To which Tarrant had thought to enlighten the man:

"Oh! I _do_ beg your pardon, sir, but if it's these rather annoyingly whippy, oversized hatpins to which you are referring, I feel I must alert you to the fact that they are... well, that is to say... Their _points _are – unfortunately – _missing._"

The club's fencing instructor had not appeared to take this information seriously. The man had stared – in a rather unfriendly manner! – at Tarrant, who, with an affronted frown, had turned toward his companion.

Hamish had sighed. "Hightopp, for the _last time!_ These _are _swords and their tips are not _missing_. They are _capped!_ For our safety!"

"Are you sure?"

"Yes! This exercise will be perfectly safe!"

"No, no, no. What I meant was are you sure this is the last time you'll be insisting on that nonsense?"

"Nonsense!" Hamish had blustered in a very Helen-Kingsleigh sort of way. "Now, see here, Hightopp! We're here to learn how to fence—!"

"Yet with no boards or slats or hammers or nails or bricks or mortar or logs or pins or wire or even marzipan in sight!" Tarrant had argued. "What sort of fence is one without – at the very _least! _– gingerbread bricks and molasses? I ask you!"

Hamish's response had been to blink uselessly at him.

The fencing instructor had made a rather rude noise which he'd attempted – poorly! – to cover with a forced cough. "Ahem, yes, thank you for that, Lord Hightopp. Now, as I was saying, the art of fencing—"

Tarrant had opened his mouth to protest the nonsensical misclassification of the activity they'd been about to attempt.

Hamish, however, had cut him off, "The fence comes later."

"We'll be building fences?"

"No."

"Fighting on the tops of fences?"

"If it's possible, I'm sure you'll find a way to do so."

"Then I fear you'll have to cut back on cake at afternoon tea, Ascot, or I doubt you'll manage it without tumbling off and skewering yourself with this... this...!" Tarrant had scowled at the sorry excuse for a weapon and swished it through the air, making it _whoosh!_ as it had traveled this way and that.

Hamish had glared at him.

But, in all honestly, Tarrant had already become accustomed to it by that time. He'd smiled back.

The instructor had cleared his throat again. "Perhaps... yes, let's just begin and... see how things go from there. Lord Ascot, if you'll demonstrate the correct posture for Lord Hightopp?"

He'd done so.

Tarrant recalls that his eyebrows had twitched with amusement. "What in all of Und—er, this room lacking in fences is _that_ supposed to be?"

Hamish glowered at him. "This is how one begins a fair fight. Now, will you just—!"

Tarrant hadn't been able to prevent himself from snorting out a cackle.

Hamish had responded by groaning and straightening. "What is it _now_, you barbarian?" His tone had been weary and not a little annoyed.

Tarrant, waving a hand as if batting away a wisp of smoke from Absolem's hookah, had obligingly stated, "A _fair fight?_ Goodness! You people _do _have the strangest ideas!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"If a fight were _fair_, there wouldn't be a winner, now would there? Both opponents being equal and such, which rather defeats the point of fighting, wouldn't you say? Rather, negates it altogether. In fact, one couldn't really call it a _fight_ now could they? It'd more of a—!"

A rather high-pitched growl had been Tarrant's only warning.

He's not given the same courtesy _this _time, however.

Hamish, obviously having grown tired of waiting for Tarrant's attack, slices his foil through the air, right at Tarrant's nose!

Scowling – for Alice won't like it if he returns home with _bruises_ – Tarrant uses his own implement – for it is most definitely _not _a sword; why it's not even a sickly cousin of his broadsword or Frabjous Day claymore! – to block the attack – Parry! he remembers the move is called – and, with a flick of his wrist, steps forward into a lunge.

"Foils up, gentlemen!" the instructor calls.

_Foils!_ Tarrant thinks with a amused smirk. And just _what _precisely are they meant to foil? The opponent's concentration?

As the instructor rambles on about posture and whatnot, Tarrant allows that it might just be the case that foils are meant to discombobulate one's adversary. The things _are _rather difficult to keep one's eye on...!

"Hightopp! Are you paying attention?"

"I'm afraid not," he admits. "I was just contemplating—"

"Perhaps," Hamish says, rudely interrupting him to comment to the instructor, "a practical approach rather than theory would better serve us today, sir."

"Perhaps you are right. Very well. Do you worst to each other. No doubt the one of you who minds my instructions will emerge the better for it."

Tarrant huffs a bit at the implication that he's unable to focus adequately and refuses to accept criticism! Why, the very notion is ridiculous! Especially since Alice had asked him for his specifically! Why, she's counting on him to—!

With a surprised yelp, Tarrant counters Hamish's sudden thrust and the paltry sword-fight-that-does-not-utilize-proper-swords-and-is-more-a-dance-than-an-actual-fight continues. Why Alice would fancy learning _this _useless sport is Beyond him!

A half an hour later, after Tarrant has "broken the rules of engagement" five times in various manners – purposefully tripping his opponent, grasping Hamish's wrist, and elbowing him in the ribs – and despite his protests to the contrary – _"This is a __**fight!**__ You can't expect me to simply wave this oversized hatpin at him, glaring as I do so!"_ – and the foils have been safely stowed away, Hamish says:

"I'd say 'good show, old man', however..."

"I'm neither old, nor was it a show, and it _would have been _rather worth our while had we been permitted to use an actual sword."

"Foils _are _swords, Hightopp," Hamish continues, his voice flat with repetition.

"Next you'll be telling me that the sun rises in the east!"

"It does."

"... ah. So. I'm quite unsurprised to hear you make that assertion."

Hamish pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. He sighs. Heavily. "I don't know why I bother to put up with your oddness."

"Perhaps you might consult Alice on that point? I'm sure she'll provide a few justifications."

"I _highly_ doubt Alice and I would be able to see eye-to-eye on your... better qualities."

"Oh! Yes, yes. Perhaps not. She's considerably shorter than you and seeing things eye-to-eye rather implies an equality of height, doesn't it?"

Hamish snorts. "That may be, but I believe she makes up for her shorter stature in strength of stubbornness."

Giggling, Tarrant agrees.

They finish getting cleaned up from the lesson and on Hamish's suggestion – "We've time for a game or two of billiards yet." – wander into the games room. Hamish leads him to an unoccupied table and Tarrant glances curiously through the open door on this side of the large room.

"Is that...?"

"The card tables through there? Yes," Hamish replies shortly, disgust in his tone, as he hands Tarrant a cue stick.

Foregoing his usual remark on Londoners' apparent affinity for long, slender, point-less objects, Tarrant instead observes, "Is that Lord Manchester...?"

"Gambling away his wife's affection, his son's future, and his own self-respect? Yes. It is."

Tarrant raises his brows and, turning toward Hamish, comments, "You disapprove?"

Hamish sets up the table, frowning most viciously at the balls and felt-covered surface. And it's just as well items cannot speak here in London or he's sure Hamish would have been warned that if he continues to scowl in such a manner his expression will become _stuck_ that way for a Good Long While!

"I do not approve," Hamish replies. "Of gambling, drinking hard liquor in the middle of the afternoon, blatant infidelity, or idiocy in general."

"Ah... so that would be why you don't take fencing lessons with Lord Manchester," Tarrant summarizes.

"Were the caps removed from the points of the foils, I might consider it, however," Hamish comments darkly.

Tarrant, wisely, says nothing. Hamish performs something called "the break" with a bit more force than Tarrant has grown accustomed to but, other than that, the game continues quite pleasantly. Well, as pleasantly as a game wherein sticks are used to push balls around a table can be.

"I still can't fathom why one mustn't _throw _the balls into the proper holes," Tarrant complains to the cue stick in his hands. "It's far more direct. Imminently more satisfying as well. Throwing things." He thinks of Thackery and Mally and grins wistfully.

"Perhaps the point," Hamish returns as he studies the layout of the table, "is not to achieve one's goals through direct means. I do believe such pursuits are intended to hone one's skills at strategy and coordination."

"Ah..." Well, considering their regular lessons with those ridiculously whippy excuses for swords perhaps a bit more coordination would be quite useful.

"Hightopp! It _is_ you!"

Tarrant startles as a hand claps him on the shoulder. He turns and finds himself in the company of a rather intoxicated Lowell Manchester. He twitches his chin to the side when his nose encounters a veritable _cloud _of Bandersnatch-bile on the man's breath.

"Didn't expect to see _you _here, in a place like this, chap. However did you...?"

Hamish sets the end of his cue against the floor with a smart _bang!_ and tightens his fingers around the stick. "Manchester," he greets with surprising civility.

"Ascot." Lowell sends a cursory glance at Tarrant's companion then looks back again. Comprehension dawns: "Oh, but of course. On Ascot's invitation, yes? Very kind of you, sir."

Lowell turns back to Tarrant and grins. It is not a friendly expression. Or perhaps, the trouble with it is that it is _too _friendly. Tarrant watches the man warily, remembering the snide remarks (in the Kingsleigh library) and disdainful silence (during dinner at the Manchester residence in town) and says nothing.

"In fact, I've been quite remiss in my duties as a brother-in-law, haven't I, Hightopp?"

"That's _Lord _Hightopp," Hamish reminds him, his bland tone utterly ruined by the narrowing of his eyes.

"Lord—!" Lowell guffaws. "Well, certainly, but we're _family_, are we not? Those sorts of formalities aren't necessary! Now! Hightopp, what say you sit down and join me for a game of cards. We're in need of a fourth."

"Thank you for the invitation," Tarrant says as neutrally as possible despite his uneasiness and rolling stomach. "But, as you can see, I'm in the middle of a game of billiards at the moment."

"But you won't mind me borrowing Hightopp for a bit, will you, Ascot?" Lowell replies, grinning.

"I'm afraid I will. As will Lady Hightopp as she's expecting his return soon."

Lowell snorts. "I'm _sure _Alice will understand."

Tarrant, oddly enough, feels the urge to send his fist through Lowell's teeth at the very _sound _of his wife's given name being slung about so casually by this... this...! "Sir, I'm afraid you'll have to count me out. I've no affection for card games."

Which is true. The last deck he'd met had not survived him, actually.

"I'll show you the way of it, Hightopp! No need to be anxious. Now, you've got an hour, haven't you? Come along and bring your quid. The opening stake is—"

"Leave off him, Lowell," Hamish _growls._

"You'll not patsy up to your brother-in-law to help you win back your quickly-lost pounds!" Hamish slams his cue stick down on the tabletop, making Tarrant jump and Lowell scowl. "Hightopp, if you've don't mind, I've had _quite enough _of this nonsense for today!"

"You needn't shackle yourself to this... fellow," Lowell advises Tarrant. "Why, I wouldn't mind having my driver drop you off home in a bit."

Tarrant gently but firmly shakes Lowell's grip from his arm. "A generous offer, to be sure," Tarrant says. "But I'm afraid I must decline. Ascot has promised to assist me with something very important this afternoon and, as he's cleared his schedule for it, I'd hate to waste his time."

He bows himself just out of arm's reach. "Best of luck with your cards, sir. Although, if you find yourself having difficulties, might I suggest that another set might be more accommodating? Just a thought. Have a pleasant day."

And with that, Tarrant nods to Hamish, who turns on his heel and marches from the room. Tarrant doesn't try to keep up with him.

It's not until they're in the Ascot carriage that the man lets loose:

"That... that _rotter!_ That utter _bounder!_ How _dare _he attempt to cozy up to you in a _blatant _appeal for funds in a public venue!"

Tarrant is unsurprised to hear this; he'd thought Lowell must have had some sort of ulterior motive for being... pleasant to him.

Hamish contines, "Has he no _shame_ – no sense of _propriety_ – what_so**ever?**_"

"Perhaps not," Tarrant agrees cheerfully. "And while I've never found a lack of shame to be Regrettable, I'll make an exception this once." And then allows: "Everyone has faults of some kind," he observes, marveling at the intensity of Hamish's irritation. Why, it's very nearly _Irritation_ rather than simple London-ish irritation.

"That Lowell has his fair share and more!" Hamish grumbles, glares out the window, then rubs a gloved hand over his face and sighs. "I pity Margaret and Winslow. The man is less than worthless."

"Now _that _– Pity, I mean – is less than worthless!" Tarrant answers. "Utterly counterproductive to anything worth having or doing."

"True. There are other, more _productive_ avenues to keep in mind," Hamish agrees. He inspects his walking stick – a gesture that Tarrant has learned he uses to reorient himself and sometimes to distract himself from inexplicable bouts of embarrassment and _occasionally_ to assist him in puzzling through some troublesome idea – and, after a moment, says, "Well, you were right earlier: I _have _cleared my schedule for the day. When you spoke of an important errand on which I could accompany you, had you done so in earnest?"

Tarrant grins. "Why yes, I had! And I'd be delighted if you would! Accompany me, that is."

"I should be honored. Where to?"

Tarrant tells him.

Hamish coughs out a disbelieving bout of laughter. "And here I thought I'd run the gamut of humiliation and other assorted unpleasantness already today."

Before Tarrant can do more that frown quizzically in reply, Hamish grumbles, "You'd better not tell anyone about this."

Then he knocks on the roof of the carriage and shouts the new destination to the driver.

"Don't worry!" Tarrant assures him. "This will be excellent fun!"

"What concerns me," Hamish replies slowly, "is that you obviously believe that to be true."

Tarrant snickers, shakes his head, and smiles.

* * *

Notes:

Notes:

1. Special "thanks" goes out to my LJ buddy, mothersuperior, for advising me on how pregnancy might be affecting Alice. Thank you so much for sharing your experiences and making this story so much more believable! (^_^)/

2. The fifteen minutes I spent looking up Victorian Era gentlemen's clubs on the Internet in _no way _lead me to believe they actually offered fencing lessons. Yes, that means there's been another sighting of that Artistic License!

3. Hyde Park is **not** my own invention. It's really there in London and it's really named that. (Or, at least it was a hundred years ago. I actually haven't checked to see if it's still there now...)

* * *

[End of Chapter 16: Scene 1 of 2]


	113. Book 3, Progress and Productivity, 2

_**Chapter Sixeen: Progress and Productivity  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

"I envy you, little sister."

Alice looks up from the embroidery she's currently butchering. Normally, she wouldn't have had any patience for it, but as she'd agreed to spending the afternoon with Margaret and Margaret seems to enjoy the domestic torture...

"I'm sorry? What?"

Margaret sighs heavily and, lowering the fabric and needle to her lap, confesses, "Tarrant. I envy you him."

Alice blinks at her. "I... you... Why would you say that?" For, as surely as Alice knows the sun rises over Mamoreal from Witzend and sets in Queast, she _knows _that Margaret would never long for – let alone _allow!_ – an impoverished man with wild eyebrows and long hair and a tradesman's hands to touch her. It's not vanity or discrimination, Alice believes. It's simply that Margaret has only ever had an interest in _her own kind._ And, if there's one thing Alice has learned from a lifetime of being compared to her older sister, it's that Margaret is a Lady. And the proper companion for a lady is a gentleman. Which Alice is very thankful Tarrant is _not._

"I'm sorry, Alice!" Margaret whispers and Alice sees tears of shame in her sister's eyes. "I didn't mean... I don't..." She stops, takes a deep breath, controls herself. "I meant, I envy your marriage. It's... it's a marriage of substance and I wish... I wish Lowell would... would _just __**once**__ speak _to me as if... as if...!"

"As if you have at least one interesting thought in your head," Alice suggests, reaching across the space between their chairs and grasping her sister's hand.

The tears return and Margaret only nods.

Alice reaches for a handkerchief – one of several she now keeps in her handbag and gently dabs the tumbling tears from her sister's face. Margaret smiles her thanks and, her gaze darting to the bright blue handkerchief, releases a sobbing laugh.

"There, you see, Alice!" she nearly shouts. "_This _is _**exactly**_ my point! Those aren't _your_ handkerchiefs – I've noticed Tarrant handing them to you before. They're _his _and he _gave_ them to you, didn't he? Knowing you'd be away with me and you might _need _them and he wouldn't _be_ here himself to offer them to you and do you have any idea what I would give to receive even _half_ that regard from Lowell?"

Alice rubs her sister's shoulder and does her best to catch as many tears as she can. "Oh, Margaret. You _were _happy with him once, weren't you? What happened?" Although, Alice thinks she already knows.

Margaret hiccups and wrestles once again for control. "Winslow happened. My beautiful son... after he was born, Lowell started... or, no, actually I don't believe that! He no longer _bothered _to keep his affairs from me. That man makes a mockery of our marriage. Humiliates me with his philandering! Everyone is aware of it! And they probably laughed at me long before I ever suspected!"

Alice hides a wince. _I should have told her about that scene at the engagement party..._

Yes, she should have.

_Damn you, Lowell, for forcing that decision on me._

Yes, she should have told Margaret, but would she have believed her then? Probably not.

"With an heir to the Manchester name, he doesn't need me anymore," she says. "It was all a lie, anyway. He never wanted _me._ He never even wanted to be _married._ That's not so much to ask for, is it? For a husband to care for his wife, to _want _to be married to her?"

Alice shakes her head. "No, no, it's not an unreasonable request at all. In fact, I'd say it's your right to expect that."

Margaret swallows thickly. "We always want what we can never have..."

Alice hesitates to ask the question she knows she has to. No one else will ask it and Margaret desperately needs to Face it. After a moment of awkward silence, she does: "What will you do, dear sister? Will you leave him? Divorce...?"

Margaret emphatically shakes her head. "No. No, I won't. I won't do that to you and mother."

"Margaret, don't use us and an excuse to delay finding your own happiness. You _know _I don't care about what's proper! And you know mother will support you in your decision, whatever it is! I've no doubt she wishes she could have spoken to you about this herself, but you know she can't. She's our mother, after all. I'm your rebellious devil-may-care sister, so I can say whatever I please!"

There's a hysterical note in Margaret's helpless laughter. Alice smiles for her and waits for her to calm down.

When she does, her sister whispers, "Even if I wanted to... end it, how could I? Winslow..."

Yes, Winslow would stay with his father. Alice is sure the man would never release his son and heir. And, certainly, his family would never permit it even if Lowell himself had no interest in the boy. In fact, Alice is almost completely sure he doesn't. She's never seen him touch the child at all, not to pick him up, not to play with him, not to kiss his brow or soothe his tears. No, Winslow is _Margaret's _son. Lowell had simply been contracted labor on the part of his conception. It's quite obvious to Alice that the man believes his job is Done.

Alice sighs. "I hate this place. These rules and restrictions."

Margaret turns and gawks, utterly gob smacked. "Alice, don't say such things! This is our _home!_"

And, however fleeting the thought of inviting her sister to Underland may have been, it no longer matters. It dies, unexplored, unvoiced, in that very moment.

"It's not _Society's _fault I'm trapped in this loveless marriage, that my husband shames me, that he treats me as if I'm a nothing more than a fixture of this house! I did this to myself, Alice. I saw what I wanted to see in him." Margaret sighs. "I almost wish I'd never found out. I wonder how long the dream could have lasted if I hadn't. Or if I'd borne a daughter first before Winslow..."

"Those aren't very helpful thoughts to be having," Alice gently scolds her. "What's done is done. Now you have to think of Winslow. And, I'm sorry to say this, Margaret, but Lowell isn't much of a father to him, and he needs one."

Margaret nods, her shoulders slumping in dejection. "I know. I'd ask Lowell's father to spend more time with him except..."

Alice sighs right along with her this time. "Yes, I know." The man obviously hadn't had much of a hand in his own son's upbringing, not with the veritable _empire _he'd built out of what had once been a modest family business.

"If only papa were..."

Alice feels tears come to her own eyes at that. "Don't, Margaret," she manages through the painful tightening of her own throat. She wants to say more, to beg her sister not to torture both of them with such thoughts, but she can't.

"I'm sorry."

Alice nods.

The clock ticks. They sniffle and soak Tarrant's borrowed handkerchiefs in tears. And when it seems like the morning has been completely ruined beyond repair, Margaret sits up and takes a deep breath.

"Well, this is getting maudlin. Come with me, Alice. There was a reason I asked you over today."

Curious and still dabbing at escaping tears, Alice follows Margaret out of the small sunroom and into the parlor. Margaret smiles as she picks up a wicker basket and sets it on the sofa. Alice joins her.

"What're those?"

Margaret lifts out the tiniest baby bunting Alice has ever _seen_. "Winslow's baby clothes," she says. "I thought you could use them... I know you and Tarrant don't have much money with you..."

Alice doesn't even have the presence of mind to _search _for something to say out of gratitude. Instead, she idiotically observes, "They're so... small."

Margaret laughs. "It certainly doesn't _feel _like it when they're on their way into the world!"

Alice hears a small, frantic snort and assumes she must have been the one to make it. However, her attention is focused on a boot. A little fur boot. For an impossibly small foot. Hands shaking, she reaches for it and lifts it and its partner from the neat stack.

"For winter," Margaret explains unnecessarily.

Alice nods, feeling the burn of tears again. "It's... so... _so..._"

Dear Fates, her and Tarrant's child – _their _child, still within _her _– will wear this tiny, precious, unbelievably _sweet _pair of boots to keep tiny toes warm from the chill and tiny ankles from getting chapped by the wind and tiny shins from becoming...

"Alice? Are you all right?"

And then it's Margaret's turn to hold the handkerchief to her sister's cheek.

"I'm—sorry—Margaret—I don't—know—what's wrong—with me?" she sobs.

And of course, as that's the moment when Alice is most decidedly Not Together and her emotions are scattered and floundering like fish out of water, the front door opens and a voice calls out, "Hello? I hope it's all right that we've let ourselves in!"

_Brangergain i'tall!_ Hamish.

"_Alice?_"

And Tarrant. Naturally. Well and truly, thoroughly panicking from her sudden loss of Control.

"We're in here!" Margaret calls too helpfully. Alice wishes she had the fortitude to summon a glare at her.

But then it's too late to bother with it because Tarrant fairly runs into the room. And Alice feels a stab of _panic-relief-confusion!_ from him before he's there, wrapping her in his arms. And, useless fool that she is, she clutches the pair of fur boots and sobs onto his shoulder.

"_Alice? Wha's th'matter, lass?_"

"N-n-nothing!" she babbles.

"It's only the boots," Margaret supplies as Hamish walks into the room.

"Wha' boots? Alice? Is there sommat wrong wi'yer boots, love?" He leans over to inspect her feet.

Marshalling herself, Alice thumps the little fur boots against his chest. "Th-_these_ b-b-boots!"

He blinks at them, a puzzled frown pulling at his brows. "I'm sorry, Alice, but I fear even _I _can't adjust those to fit you. Not with the size you're currently at. They're far, far too small for your right-proper-Alice–"

And whatever composure she'd managed to gather is dashed to bits at the reminder of how _small_ and _helpless _and _precious_ these boots are and their child will be!

"What in the name of the queen is going on in here? Alice? Are you all right?"

"Of course she is!" Alice hears her sister reply. "She's expecting. She's allowed to marvel at the miracle of life!"

"The miracle of...!" There's a slight pause and then Hamish blusters, "You gave Hightopp a right _scare_, Alice! Now calm yourself before the man loses his mind with worry! And here we thought you were upset over something _important._"

Margaret, bless her, comes to her little sister's rescue. "Important? _Important_, Hamish? What could be more important that realizing one's a part of bringing new life into the world?"

Hamish flounders.

Alice barks out a laugh, which, oddly enough helps her get her tears under control. She leans away from Tarrant and laughs. "Boots for our Hightopp," she informs him, holding them up properly.

Tarrant's suddenly misty-eyed stare as he looks at the little shoes in her grasp nearly sends her into an over-emotional bout of insanity... again.

However, he manfully blinks back his own tears and, looking up, smiles. "I like 'em!"

He says nothing about their size or how they will fit their child or the important role they will play during winter... and for that, Alice damns convention, wraps her arms around his shoulders and kisses him in her sister's parlor.

"Now," Alice says decisively, knowing that Tarrant will never allow her to apologize for crying on his jacket, "What did you and Hamish do while you were out?"

"Yes," Margaret says. "Let's have some tea and then you boys can tell us all about your manly activities that have nothing whatsoever to do with babies."

Tarrant giggles.

Hamish narrows his blue eyes at him. "Don't say it, Hightopp. I forbid you."

"So sorry! Must! Alice must know!" he snorts out, shaking with laughter.

"I must know what?" she demands, looking from her husband to Hamish and then back again.

"We bought a bassinet," he whispers out in a high-pitched voice just this side of insane cackling.

"A bassinet? Whatever for?"

He sighs and gives her a long-suffering Look.

"No, I meant, why so soon? We've _months _yet." Over three of them, if she's counted correctly.

"Perhaps I was merely attempting to be productive."

"Was fencing not?"

He snorts. "Fencing. The most utterly useless, senseless, nonsensical...!" He sighs and gives her a wry smile. "You will realize exactly how much I love you once you are able to permit me to teach you this... custom."

"I can hardly wait!" She grins back, delighted.

"Yes, let's tell Alice how very much you _enjoy _contradicting the instructor and then stomping on my toes, Hightopp. Very sportsmanlike of you."

Tarrant doesn't deny it.

Alice laughs.

Hamish harrumphs.

Margaret pats his shoulder. "Let's get that tea on, then."

Hamish glances down at her hand in the instant before she pulls away. "While the offer is very welcome, madam, I'm afraid I must be following Hightopp's example – just this once!" he asserts with a mild glare in Tarrant's direction. "– and attempt to accomplish something... productive this afternoon."

Alice is a little surprised by the fact that Tarrant suddenly straightens. His green eyes narrow as he examines Hamish in contemplative silence.

"Well," Margaret replies, ignorant of Tarrant's sudden change in mood. "Far be it from me to attempt to waylay a gentleman on a mission. I'll see you out."

"Thank you, madam." He turns toward Tarrant and Alice. "Will you borrow the Manchester carriage to get home or...?"

"That won't be necessary," Alice tells him. "The Kingsleigh carriage should be coming around on the hour."

"Ah. Very good. Until Friday, Hightopp."

"I look forward to it, Ascot," Tarrant replies amiably but with a sly grin tickling the corner of his mouth.

Alice waits until her sister and Hamish have moved out of the room and down the hall. "What is it?" she asks him.

"Something productive," Tarrant replies.

"What about it?"

"I suggested that very course of action to him earlier today."

"Did you? How is that odd?" she asks for, by the look on his face, he had most assuredly _not _expected Hamish to seriously consider the suggestion at all.

"Because, Raven," he answers, giving her a delighted yet slithy-mad smile, "I made it in reference to your sister and her... unfortunate choice of spouse."

Alice feels her mouth drop open as Comprehension begins to dawn. First in lime green, then buttercup yellow, and then blushing rose...

She chokes, "You... you..."

And at the sound of the front door closing, Alice finds coherency and whispers urgently. "You don't think he'd do anything... rash would you?"

"Out of my presence? I certainly hope not! I've been rather looking forward to seeing how Rashness suits him!"

"Tarrant!" she hisses.

His brows arc and his expression morphs into the epitome of Innocence. "Yes, love?"

Alice sighs through a grin that's quickly becoming one of Wonder. "You are Mad."

He giggles. "I'm glad to hear you say so, my Alice. Very glad!"

"Oh dear," she muses. "I'm afraid we've made a rhyme."

And when Margaret steps back into the room, she's greeted with the sight of her sister and brother-in-law knee-deep in tears of helpless mirth on her sofa with a pair of baby's winter boots still held in their hands between them.

Alice imagines they must be quite the sight if Margaret's teary smile is anything to go by.

* * *

Notes:

1. A BIG Thank You to Amaranthea for sharing her research on divorce in the Victorian Era with me! Actually, in the event of a divorce, Margaret _might_ be awarded custody of her son (because he's under the age of seven) but I decided that, in a legal battle and with no male representation (i.e., Charles Kingsleigh) to back Margaret, the Manchesters would probably be able to take custody of Winslow. It's half Artistic License and half pessimistic realism on my part.

2. The part with the little baby booties was inspired by Broomclosetkink. Here's your request, sweetie! (^_~)b

* * *

[End of Chapter 16]


	114. Book 3, In Her Name, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Seventeen: In Her Name  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

"Mialta!"

Alice's eyes snap open as Tarrant's exclamation interrupts her first sip of her first and bloody _only!_ cup of tea of the day.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Helen asks politely, looking up from her plate of fruit.

"Mialta," Tarrant repeats, ignoring the presence of Alice's mother and sister and looking very Deeply into Alice's eyes. "Or Almita, if it's a girl." He searches her expression for a reaction. "And, perhaps, Tamial. If it's a boy."

"Oh," Margaret muses aloud. "Those sound like... lovely names. Unique."

Alice continues staring, tea forgotten.

"What do you think, Alice?" Helen prompts.

"Mialta, Almita, Tamial..." she muses aloud, rolls the odd similarities over in her mind. The same three pairings of letters, arranged in three different ways...

"Tamial..." Alice draws in a quick breath as realization hits her. Tamial, Alimta, and Mialta! Of course! "Ta" from "Tarrant." "Al" from "Alice." And "Mi" from...

"If you're still wanting to name our littlin' for the queen," he murmurs, looking anxious. "Or at least name in part. Partly. A part of a name. A partly named sort of name. A—!"

Alice leans forward and kisses him. Her mother coughs and turns her attention to her teacup. Margaret helps herself to another cookie.

"They're Perfect," she tells him when she leans back.

His gaze is slightly unfocused with the intensity of his happiness – his pupils delightfully mismatched in size and orientation – and his eyes are so utterly green! He grins his tea-stained and gap-toothed smile... and then sighs.

"I'm so happy you like them, my Alice."

"How could I not, coming from your mind as they did?"

The sight of his smile and weakly fluttering hands and slightly twitching fingers is response enough.

"Tarrant, the tea is lovely," Alice's mother comments to fill the awkward silence. "As always."

"Thank you, but... oh! Actually, it was Alice who did the honors today."

"Alice!" her mother gasps, glancing down at her cup. "Wherever did you learn to make proper tea?"

Margaret also regards her tea with surprise.

Alice replies, placing her bare right hand on his gloved left one, "Tarrant taught me..." And at this moment, she grins widely, inviting him to share the coming joke. "...how to listen to the tea leaves steeping."

"I beg your pardon?" Helen manages.

Margaret sighs with fond exasperation. Suddenly, Alice feels like an over-imaginative six-year-old girl again. "Oh, honestly! What sort of sound is that?"

The question is meant to be an impossible one, Alice knows. She answers anyway. "It has a kind of rhyme to it... How does it go again?" She tilts her head in Tarrant's direction and squints, digging through her memories, "Hush and brush, hiss and kiss..."

Tarrant turns his hand over on the tabletop and interlaces their fingers. Gently, he corrects her imperfect memory: "_'Shush and hush they brush, lest the best be rest, hiss and kiss, lips from cup sip.'_"

Alice smiles. "Yes, that's it. The sound, I mean, of tea leaves steeping."

Her mother and sister gape at her and Tarrant.

"It's there if you listen closely," he asserts, his brows dancing with the force of his convictions and humor.

Margaret recovers first. "Goodness, Alice. You're still mad," she comments in a fond tone.

"Undoubtedly." And she's not alone in that madness, either. However, no one remarks on Tarrant's eccentricities as it would be frightfully impolite to do so!

"I imagine this place you've yet to tell me the proper name of – this country where you live now – looks more favorably upon that sort of thing," her mother muses with a small smile.

Alice returns the gesture. It's odd to see a satisfied gleam in her mother's eyes when speaking of madness. "You could say that."

"How far is it?" Margaret asks.

Alice considers her answer. She recalls Mirana's advice to confide the truth to her family. She feels Tarrant's encouraging nudge via the heart line. Still, bluntly informing them that she now lives in a world that exists through the looking glass and yet far underground would not be... prudent.

Instead, she chooses a riddle: "It is further than you could ever imagine, yet closer than a dream."

"Oh, why won't you just _tell _us?" Margaret fusses. Beside her chair, Winslow waves his chubby little arms and she passes him a small piece of orange to distract him.

"Where's the adventure in that, dear?" Helen replies and then, leaning back in her chair, invites, "Give us another hint, Alice. What sort of place is it?"

Alice fiddles with her cup. She looks up at her husband who merely smiles and nods. After a moment of contemplation, she selects a page from Tarrant's wonderfully eccentric book of Thoughts.

She says, "I've been considering things that begin with the letter 'M'..." She rests a hand on her belly, grins, and says, "Miracles..."

"Muchness," Tarrant immediately contributes.

"Madness," she counters and then looks across the table at her mother and sister.

"Marvelous?" her sister contributes after a moment of thoughtful silence.

"Magical," Alice is surprised to hear her mother say with great assertion. In reply to Alice's no doubt flunderwhapped look, Helen huffs. "Oh, come now, Alice. You can't expect me to believe you'd be happy anywhere boringly _normal,_ can you?"

Alice laughs, nods, and – daringly – adds, "Mirrors."

Tarrant's fingers tighten around hers.

"Mirrors?" Margaret echoes. Even Helen frowns at the word.

"Yes, mirrors. And I'm afraid that's all the help I can give you at the moment."

Margaret rolls her eyes. "Magnificent. Now I'll have M-words on my mind all day."

Tarrant giggles.

Alice hides her grin behind her cup.

Tea continues. Minutes of companionable silence later, before Helen can make a move in the direction of the teapot to refill her cup, Tarrant rises and serves her.

"Thank you, Tarrant."

"My pleasure, madam."

Alice watches as her mother's gaze flickers toward his gloved left hand. And then Helen takes a deliberate breath and smiles.

Something deep within Alice's chest unlocks and dissolves. The sensation echoes from her Heart Mark as Tarrant resumes his seat.

The sound of the doorbell, however, interrupts whatever might have been said next.

"That'll be Hamish," Helen predicts. "Off to the club today or will you be purchasing more furniture?"

Tarrant chuckles. "The club, madam. I'm afraid, were I to disrupt your fine home with another addition, that item would be a loom."

"A loom?" Margaret parrots, blinking at him. "You... can weave as well?"

"Oh, no! Not well at all!" he protests. "But it's an Out—er, Hightopp custom that a bolt of fabric be made for a new littlin' and I've yet to get started on it!"

"Why didn't you say something sooner?" Alice asks.

"Yes," her mother continues. "Why, my grandmother's loom is up in the attic. I brought it with me when I married Charles, hoping..."

Alice sighs. "Hoping one of your children might take to it." She shares a knowing look with her sister. In _this _both she and Margaret had been in complete agreement: a loom is nothing more than an medieval torture device!

Speaking of which...

Alice reaches for Tarrant's hand and brushes his fingertips with her own. "You won't... again will you?" Not only does she hate the thought of him deliberately hurting himself, shedding blood for even the best and most noble of reasons, but it would be Dangerous to risk revealing the color of his blood here.

He covers her hand with his. "I won't. It will be white. A blank canvas, so to speak."

She releases a breath and nods.

"Shall I ask Mr. Brown to have it brought down, then?" Helen asks.

"Yes, please, madam!" Tarrant enthuses. And then, after a moment of considering: "Perhaps to the sewing room if it won't be too much of an imposition?"

"That will be fine."

And just then the dinning room door slides open. "Lord Hamish Ascot," the butler announces.

"Hamish!" Margaret greets with a grin. "Have some tea." She waves across to the seat between Winslow's bassinet and Helen's chair.

"Thank you. I will. Good afternoon, Mrs. Kingsleigh. You're once again looking well today."

As Hamish slides into his seat and exchanges pleasantries with Margaret, Tarrant squeezes her hand – still lightly clasped in his – and takes a noisy sip of tea. Alice frowns briefly but forces herself not to think about her husband's suspicions on _that _front. At least, not _here!_

They discuss Lord Ascot's health and general wellbeing: "He'd like another visit with you next week if you can spare the time and trouble," Hamish informs her and her husband. They discuss Lady Ascot's next social function: "Well, that's just as well," Helen comments upon hearing her friend's schedule. "I've arranged a luncheon with the Young Ladies Professionals Society on that day. Your mother needn't feel obliged to attend what with her tea function to see to." They discuss people Alice has not seen or spoken to in years, people who are eager to see her again and meet her husband, people who had glimpsed them at the Ascots' soiree... but they do not discuss one person in particular:

No one says a single word about Lowell.

It's well into the afternoon before Hamish remarks on the time.

"So," Margaret says and Hamish watches as she offers an insistent Winslow a finger sandwich. "You'll be fencing this afternoon with Tarrant?"

"No, I'm afraid not," Hamish differs and glances across at his usual sparring partner. "I wasn't able to reserve a lesson with the instructor. It'll be either boxing or billiards today."

"Boxing!" Alice sputters before Tarrant can do more than twitch a brow in reply. "Absolutely not!" She struggles to hide her fear – dear Fates, what if someone discovers Tarrant is Different: blue blood! – beneath her outrage.

"Goodness, Hamish, I'd have to agree," Margaret comments with shockingly fortuitous insight. "Suppose you two got carried away! However would you explain a broken nose to your father's investors?"

"The rakish look is fashionable these days," he replies with daring madness Alice would never have expected of him a mere month ago. "Or so I've heard."

"You'll be well raked-over indeed if you don't give up that idea!" Alice asserts.

Tarrant giggles. "Never fear, Alice, we shall engage in nothing but utterly _bloodless_, boringly masculine pursuits. Like... backgammon!"

"Oh, a boisterous bout of backgammon. Behave yourselves," Alice replies in a droll tone which doesn't match her relieved smile.

Tarrant snorts a giggle.

Hamish ignores her. "Hightopp, last call. Are we trouncing each other or not today?"

"Trounce _him,_" Alice commands her husband with a smile.

"Be _safe,_" he answers suddenly very Serious.

She nods. It's an easy concession to make. "Just a brisk walk around the park. Nothing for you to worry about. Enjoy yourself."

He brushes his fingers over her cheek. "I shall endeavor to do so." And smiling, Tarrant reaches over and collects his hat from the empty seat between him and the end of the table. Alice collects their right gloves from the empty seat beside her and passes Tarrant's to him. He helps her up from her seat. Hamish attends to her mother and Margaret. Winslow is gathered up in his grandmother's arms.

At the front door, where Mr. Brown is still hovering, Hamish offer, "Shall I give you a hand into your carriage, Lady Manchester? Mrs. Kingsleigh?"

"Yes, thank you."

"That would be much appreciated."

Alice feels Tarrant cover her hand with his own, pressing it into the crook of his arm, and he leans closer to murmur, "Would you happen to require similar assistance, my Alice?"

"Yours and no other's," she replies.

His smile widens and his eyes _glow_. "And, should you require anything else of mine..."

"I'm sure I shall and when I do, you shall know it, sir."

"Then I shall look forward to _Knowing _it, my Alice."

A smile, a caress of his gloved thumb over her gloved knuckles, and a closed carriage door later, Alice and her sister are off and on their way.

Grinning like a complete ninny, Alice leans toward the window and waves good-bye. Tarrant's replying wave is quite... vigorous and, if Hamish's expression is any indication, manages to sour the man's stomach.

"It is so very good to see you happy, Alice dear," her mother comments.

She smiles and leans back against the seat beside her sister.

"She makes a lovely mother-to-be, doesn't she?" Margaret remarks.

Alice swallows a bubble of laughter: _iambic pentameter!_

She clears her throat and rallies, "And yet, for so long, you both despaired that I'd end up an old maid!"

"True enough," Helen admits without taking her attention off of Winslow who is fussing in her arms.

Margaret contrarily adds, "I rather thought you'd never find a man who would be mad enough to have you, little sister."

"Luckily, _he_ found _me_," Alice rebuts and their laughter sets the tone for the remainder of the afternoon.

* * *

[End of Chapter 17: Scene 1 of 3]


	115. Book 3, In Her Name, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Seventeen: In Her Name  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

"Hightopp, I've something... important to discuss with you," Hamish announces on their way to the club.

"Oh?" He'd been expecting something like this. Why, ever since the day he'd warned Hamish away from indulging in counterproductive pity, the man has had Something on his mind. Quite obviously. And had been insufferably rude in _not _sharing his thoughts!

_Uplanders,_ Tarrant mutters to himself. And not for the first time since becoming... acquaintances with Hamish Ascot.

"Yes. You see, I've had Lowell Manchester's finances looked into."

Tarrant wonders how that would be possible. "Looked into?" he queries, wondering at the odd turn of phrase in relation to financial matters.

"Investigated," Hamish clarifies, not longer bothering to mince words. "I've also had an investigator follow him and report to me over the last month."

"Oh. I see." But only vaguely! However, he senses that full comprehension of this point will not be entirely necessary for what is to come.

He's right.

Hamish explains his planned course of action and Tarrant turns the man's rationale over in his mind.

"Ascot..." he begins. "I am not well-versed in these London-ish customs of yours, but... it seems to me that even Lowell will object to your... proposal."

"I'm sure he will. However, this is all for a good cause, is it not? And, truly, how else can it be done? And who else will be willing to do it? Aside from yourself, obviously," Hamish allows when Tarrant opens his mouth to add his own contribution. "Unfortunately, you do not have the funds for this particular enterprise."

Tarrant objects cautiously, "I _would _have the funds... if you would loan them to me. That way you might avoid... difficulties." He thinks of Lady Ascot's reaction to what her son is planning. "Lady Ascot..."

Hamish winces. "With any luck, we shall be able to confine this matter to the sphere of gentleman's influence. She never need know."

"I see. Is that why you'll proceed with this mad plan of yours at the club?"

"Yes. I can't have a maid or butler overhearing this and reporting back to Marg—_ahem_, Lady Manchester. If the venture fails... If the absolute _worst _should happen, I would not wish her to be aware of the role she's played... albeit unwittingly."

Tarrant sighs. "You know I have to tell Alice."

"Will she keep it in her confidence?"

"Alice is quite skilled at keeping secrets," Tarrant replies. _Too skilled._

"Very well. I have no objection. Only, please do not tell her where anyone can possibly overhear."

"We're due for another carriage ride soon," Tarrant comments and tries to keep the lascivious grin from peeping out.

"That should suffice. Now, when we arrive, I shall need you to do the following things, Hightopp..."

Again, Tarrant listens. Listens and marvels.

"But, Ascot..." he finally manages when the man pauses to take a breath. "If... that is, if Lowell should take Offense and demand...? You would choose _me_ to...?"

"Yes, Hightopp, I most certainly would. If you've no objections."

"I..." Objections? No, _he _doesn't. He would be glad to do this for Hamish, and, by extension, for Alice's sister. However, Alice will object. Of that he is _sure._ "If I refuse, who will you select?"

When Hamish cannot think of an immediate reply, when no reassurance comes forward, when a flicker of fear crosses the man's face, Tarrant knows what he _must _do.

_I'm sorry, Alice. Forgive me._

"Never mind. I accept," he declares.

Hamish relaxes. "I... thank you, Hightopp. It may not come to that."

Tarrant nods but does not agree. They both know the sort of man Lowell Manchester is. And they both know the likelihood of this plan being met with peaceful, _mundane_ success is very... small indeed.

And, as it turns out, their instincts on this matter prove to be entirely correct.

In a small, private study of the club, Hamish Ascot endures Lowell Manchester's shock, affront, and fury.

"You... you are offering...! In exchange for my _wife and son, Ascot?_" the man hisses, red-faced with lingering spirits and rage.

"No. If you'll read the contract again, sir, you'll realize that I am offering you a way to avoid debtor's prison and a fresh start for yourself and your family. In the event that you find yourself incapable of that, I am attempting to allow your wife and son to seek a more... stable and financially secure protector. But only should you continue to be as monumentally foolish with their future as you have been thus far!"

Lowell barks out a laugh. "And I suppose you'd _happily _offer yourself for the position, Ascot?"

"No, sir. I will not. This would be Lady Manchester's choice. In every sense of the word."

Tarrant doesn't point out that Margaret may still choose Lowell, despite the fact that he has neither met nor maintained his responsibilities toward her thus far in their marriage.

Lowell grits his teeth. His hand curls into a fist, crumpling the paper that, with a few signatures, will guarantee the man an advance on his annual allowance which will permit him to repay his debts which will give him a fresh start. And all that Hamish asks in return is the reimbursement of the original loan by the second week of December. It's a simple agreement, really. And a feasible one as Lowell will be receiving his annual income in three months' time. All the man must do is stop his excessive gambling and other... unsavory expenditures.

However, Lowell does not appear to see it that way. He sees only the price of his failure to repay the loan. A price his pride – for Tarrant cannot possibly believe his heart gives a damn! – is unwilling to allow him to consider!

"_This_—" Lowell indicates the crushed contract in his hand. "—is an _insult!_ I demand satisfaction, Ascot."

Tarrant watches as Hamish, expression neutral and utterly unsurprised, nods. "Very well, sir."

Tarrant lets out a silent sigh of regret. Alice will not be Pleased with this. No, not at all!

"Choose your Second," Lowell instructs him. "Mine will be around on the morrow with a formal challenge."

"I understand. Have him deliver it to the Kingsleigh residence. Hightopp will receive it."

Lowell glares, snarls, "As I thought." He throws a nasty glare in Tarrant's direction before tossing the now-worthless document at Hamish's feet and storming from the room.

After the door closes behind him, Tarrant turns toward his... friend.

"Are you truly ready to meet him, lad?"

"I'll be perfectly fine," Hamish replies. "Besides, he may yet reconsider. Between now and tomorrow."

He may, Tarrant acknowledges, but doesn't believe he will...

Again, he is proven correct.

Tarrant greets the man who calls the following morning and accepts the letter. The formal challenge. He reads it there in the parlor as Hamish had explained custom dictates.

"Will Ascot be issuing a formal apology for this slight?" Lowell's man inquires. Tarrant thinks he recognizes him from the gaming tables. He'd never sensed much of an affinity between Lowell and any of his fellow gamblers. In fact, the man seems utterly uninterested in the proceedings.

"Not at this time," Tarrant replies.

"Then I believe we shall meet on the morrow at the time and place given."

"Undoubtedly," he replies. The man sees himself out.

Tarrant folds up the letter, tucks it into his jacket pocket, and then heads upstairs to where Alice is currently drafting a letter to Townsend, arranging for a visit next week. He opens the bedroom door and blinks. For Alice is _not _composing the letter he'd left her working on only a few minutes ago: she is standing in the center of their room, her arms crossed over her now-clearly swollen belly and a stern expression on her face.

"Who was that just now? And what are you Dreading?" she asks.

He sighs. "Come for a carriage ride with me?" he asks, knowing they'll need privacy for this, more than they'll get here with Brown and the cook and the chambermaid hovering about.

"Where to?" she asks, reaching for her coat.

Tarrant helps her into it and bundles her in a scarf and woolen gloves. "To Ascot's house in town."

He summarizes the scene from the club yesterday in the carriage. She takes it far more calmly than he'd expected she would. Far more calmly that _he_ would have, had their positions been reversed. He knows what he's Asking of her: Trust. Trust of the deepest sort. Trust that, as Alice's mind and their littlin's future hang in the balance, Tarrant will do the Right thing, that he will Choose Them. Again. If it comes to that.

Failure is un-contemplate-able: he can guess what will happen to Alice, should the heart line break... permanently. They had _both_ received a taste of that unbearable future...

He shivers even though Alice is a warm weight tucked up against his side.

"May I see the challenge?" she asks quietly.

Flunderwhapped by her apparent acceptance of the situation, he passes it to her, watches as she opens and reads it. "It doesn't say what Hamish did or said to cause this reaction from Lowell."

"Oh, it doesn't?" he attempts to stall.

Alice has none of it. "What happened?"

Tarrant explains – as best he can considering his limited understanding of Uplandish customs and logic – the nature of the contract Hamish had had drawn up.

"Ah..." she finally says.

"Yes."

She sighs and returns the letter to him. "Tarrant..."

"I'm sorry, Alice! It's just... Hamish needs... and I'm the only one who...!" Tarrant snaps his mouth shut and, closing his eyes, takes a deep breath before attempting to explain his rationale in a _rational _manner.

Alice's bare fingers, still warm from being protected from the early autumn chill by her woolen gloves, press against his lips. "I know." She doesn't look happy – not at all! – but he can see and sense and Feel that she Understands. "It's Hamish's right to choose the weapon in this case. I trust him not to choose pistols." She looks him in the eye. "I would not be able to stand by knowing you might be facing a handgun in a duel to the death," she informs him. "Lowell demands satisfaction to the last man standing. Which means that there will be a physician present to rule one man or the other unfit to continue fighting; you should not _have to_ take his place and..." Here, she draws a slow, deep breath. "And fight Lowell." The idea is obviously abhorrent to her but all she says is: "You've stood by while I've fought. By the sword, the knife, the staff... And I named you my Champion. I suppose that makes you Margaret's as well... because, well... you know I'd protect her – do this for her – myself if I could."

"Alice, Hamish is Margaret's Champion. I'm just—"

"—his Second. I know." She shakes her head but doesn't move out of his arms, for which he's very, _very _thankful. "But I'll be coming with you."

"What? _No!_ _Alice...!_"

She turns toward him, her eyes blazing with temper and the mark over his heart is suddenly broiling him alive! "Whenever possible, _you _have always attended my duels. I claim that right now, Tarrant. You won't dissuade or deny me." She sits back and, closing her eyes, whispers, "If you have to fight, you may need to be healed afterwards. I need to be there to do that. If it comes to that."

He feels her _**rage-fear-anger-pain-need-denial-fury-terror!**_ subside. But he knows it's not Gone. No, she has merely wrestled it back under control.

"You'll stay in the carriage?" he asks.

"Yes," she agrees. "Unless you need me."

"I need ye teh b'safe. Teh b'all righ'."

"And the very same applies to you, Raven." She tucks her head under his chin and nuzzles his coat. "Please keep that in mind."

Tarrant tucks his head down, breathes in the scent that rises up from his wife's now-wavy hair. "'Twill b'jus'fine, my Alice."

She nods but her hands tighten on his jacket sleeves.

She Worries.

So does he.

But they've reached an Agreement.

And not a moment too soon, for, at that moment, the carriage slows and pulls over in front of the Ascot townhouse.

* * *

Notes:

1. Another "thank you" goes out to Amaranthea for sharing her research on the customs of 19th century duels! I'm still being rather vague and making historical errors and such, I'm sure, so let's blame my Artistic License for those, ey? (^_~)

* * *

[End of Chapter 17: Scene 2 of 3]


	116. Book 3, In Her Name, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Seventeen: In Her Name  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

"Let me make sure I understand this, Hamish," Alice says, subtly struggling with a storm of emotions. He Feels the occasional rumble, the brief flashes of heat, like an electrical storm within his chest. "According to this contract you presented to him, if Lowell can't pay you back, you would force him to offer Margaret not only a divorce, but permanent custody of Winslow?"

"No!" he huffs. "Blast it, Alice! Haven't you been paying attention?"

She grins knowingly at him. "Perhaps not. It's hard to think past the part where you asked my husband to stand up with you and possibly fight on _your behalf_ if circumstances demand it."

Hamish has the grace to look abashed. "I will not permit any harm to come to your Hightopp, Alice. I give you my word. This is between Manchester and myself."

"Yes, back to that. What is, or rather, _was_ the purpose of this contract?"

Hamish leans back into his armchair and sighs. "I was attempting to give Manchester a fresh start. I'd advance him the sum of his salary from his father's company. He'd need only use it to square his debts – get his feet back under him and his head back on his shoulders. I _intended _that he finally manage to curtail his rash and foolish expenditures when he realizes how very close he is to causing his family profound public humiliation."

"Why hasn't Lord Manchester stepped in? He's Lowell's _father_," Alice points out and Tarrant Understands her perfectly: _This is not __**your **__responsibility, Hamish Ascot, so why had you decided to take it on nonetheless?_

"I'm afraid he already has. Stepped in. Advanced funds to his son already this year."

Alice shakes her head. "And yet you persist with this mad idea? What made you think Lowell would be able to pay you back if his habits have become that bad?" She narrows her eyes at him. "Unless, you were expecting that he wouldn't...?"

Hamish glares at her.

"If he had chosen this contract of yours over debtor's prison, you would be, you realize, essentially _forcing _the man to divorce his wife and abandon his son?"

"I didn't intend to _force _him to do anything! The decision whether or not to proceed with a divorce would have been Lady Manchester's! Should she have required legal representation, I would have happily employed a solicitor on her behalf, but... However... Why are we still discussing this blasted contract? Manchester rejected it – very soundly! – so it's a moot point!"

"Humor me."

Hamish glances at Tarrant who merely shrugs and admits, "I'm rather curious myself. About how these things work here in London."

Obliged to satisfy his guests' enquiries, Hamish huffs to himself and starts over, straightening his shoulders. "The contract was intended to force Manchester to finally come to his senses. If he didn't pull himself together, he'd have to disclose his personal bankruptcy to your sister. And she may yet choose to stay with him but – bloody hell! – I'd like to see her with the _option _of doing what she feels is best for herself and her son. That is _all,_ Alice!"

"An admirable goal," Alice admits. "And, perhaps because of that, it seems to have been more than enough to anger Lowell. It also seems more than enough reason to endanger my husband's life. And, were it not for the fact that you obviously have my sister and nephew's welfare in mind, I would probably kill you in cold blood for even daring to think it."

Tarrant fists his hands and resists the urge to shudder. He knows that Tone of voice. He's heard it before:

_"Good boy. I suppose you can be taught after all."_

Madness. Alice is dancing upon the very Line between being a mercenary and a Champion. A wife – a mother! – and a sister, a heroine.

"And yet," she continues, leaning forward as far as her belly and their seven-month-old child will comfortably allow, "I wonder if you've truly considered the implications of your actions, Hamish. Do you realize you just tried to _buy _my sister's divorce? You presented yourself as Margaret Manchester's _protector...?_"

"Stop it, Alice. We grew up together, the three of us. Our fathers were close friends and sometimes business partners. For obvious reasons, my own father cannot stand in for yours. Hence, this situation falls to me to be dealt with."

"Do you really believe that?" Alice challenges. "You honestly see yourself as a surrogate _father_ to Margaret?"

His mouth works. His expression turns quite consternated.

"That's what I thought," she replies to his eloquent silence. "You won't be able to keep this – the duel and the reason for it – from my sister, you know."

"You won't tell her," he dares with more bluster than confidence.

"No, I won't. But I hear Lowell's awfully talkative when he's on his second bottle of scotch. Rather enjoys shouting all sorts of things at his father's portrait in the library. Who knows what might come out?"

"Blast," Hamish mutters. He shakes his head. "No. No, he won't dare. We'll keep this between ourselves."

"Famous last words," Alice counters.

"Excellent," Hamish replies. "That means you'll be on your way soon then, does it?"

Alice barks out a laugh. "Very well, Hamish. We'll leave you with your foolishness. Perhaps you'll come to _your_ senses..."

Hamish sighs. Deeply. "Alice, Manchester has failed your sister and she doesn't even know the true extent of it!" He runs a hand over his cravat self-consciously. "I merely tried to help."

Tarrant thinks he hears Alice mutter something about terminally heroic males, but he can't be sure...

Hamish rallies, "Or would you rather see her and your nephew suffer because of that man's selfishness, short-sightedness, and lack of self-discipline? Our families have been tied together for too long for me to do nothing. Unfortunately, that contract was the best option available to me... Unless you'd like to simply do away with the cad entirely!"

Hamish is only half-serious. But Tarrant is startled to actually see and Feel his Alice consider the option!

After a long moment, she finally says, "I'd rather you not be called down to Floor to explain yourself in front of the House of Lords. Margaret would not be able to bear the shame of it. The accusations. The scandal would be even worse in that case." She sighs. "No. Don't kill Lowell. He'd be made out to be a hero and you and my sister..."

"Yes," Hamish agrees shortly.

"_Brangergain i'tall_ but _how _did you ever manage to get yourself into this mess?" she asks weakly.

"That," Tarrant says, speaking for the first time since they'd crossed the threshold, "would be my fault. And a small comment about productivity, if I'm not mistaken?" He glances at his startled-looking friend. "If I had merely encouraged you to continue pitying Margaret's situation, you would not have felt the need to hire an investigator... and then a solicitor... and then approach Manchester with that contract... and then... ahem, yes, yes, exactly!"

For a long moment, the silence is Absolute.

And then Alice laughs. "Oh, bulloghin' boggletogs. I should have known." But when she turns and looks at Tarrant, her smile is genuine. "You started this mess, did you, Raven?"

"I... believe so, yes, my Alice."

She shakes her head, but not in denial or disappointment but in wondering disbelief. With an arc of her brows, she declares, "Then we'll have to see it through."

"We?" Hamish parrots. "I dearly hope you're not including yourself in this, madam!"

"I am," she replies mildly. "So make room in the carriage."

"For an unreasonable, obstinate, irrationally _stubborn_ lady in a delicate condition?" he clarifies accusingly. And when Tarrant giggles at the utter accuracy of Hamish's proclamation, the man glares and – eyes promising something utterly _nasty _– draws a breath to speak.

Alice cuts him off. "Speak your mind with regards to me all you like, but you've not the experience or the wisdom required to accurately judge Tarrant. Besides," she concludes, "you've insulted enough of your peers for one twenty-four hour period, haven't you?"

"I suppose I have," Hamish replies, deflating.

Alice moves as if to stand and Tarrant leaps up to help her. She surprises him by _not _moving toward the door to the private study, however. She approaches Hamish's chair and lays a hand on the back of it. "We'll stay with you if you'd like," Alice offers with sudden compassion. "You don't have to be alone in this house today. And I'll swear not to speak another word concerning tomorrow."

Hamish leans his head back against the chair. He smiles. For nearly a minute, the man says nothing. And then: "Well, in that case, tea anyone?"

Tarrant cackles. "I was wondering if you'd forgotten entirely!"

Apparently, it's too much trouble to look affronted. Hamish shrugs. "Blame your wife. She wouldn't stop harping at me long enough for me to offer."

Alice returns his smile. "My _condition_ must be muddling my priorities."

Hamish laughs.

Tarrant lets out a breath, expelling his tension and then drawing in the fortitude necessary for What Comes Next. What Alice had promised she will not speak of. And what must be done in order to avoid thinking of it as well. Perhaps... yes, perhaps... Tarrant decides: "Well, that's settled then. We'll stay for a bit and, in exchange, you will permit me one liberty, sir."

"What's that, Hightopp?"

"No, no! No objections!" Tarrant forestalls him. "For _I_ will be teaching _you_ how to make a proper pot of tea!"

Alice bites her lip but her humor dances within his chest. Hamish groans. "Bloody hell. Domestic torture. I should have known."

"Yes, you really should have," Tarrant agrees. "Even you cannot stomach that shukm you brew!"

Hamish harrumphs. "That is not even a proper word," he objects, standing.

"It is where _we _come from," Tarrant counters. "Now, to the kitchen! March 'Hare'!"

Alice laughs out loud. Hamish gives Tarrant a blank look then, with a shrug and a toss of his bright red hair, leads the way.

* * *

[End of Chapter 17]


	117. Book 3, Worth Fighting For, 1 of 2

**NOTE: **This chapter is rated** M **for** non-explicit sexual situations **and **violence/fighting****. **As always, the original and unedited version is available on my homepage for readers who are interested and OF AGE.**  
**

* * *

_**Chapter Eighteen: Worth Fighting For  
**_

[Scenes 1 and 2 of 3]

The baby wakes her just before dawn. Alice frowns as an unfamiliar bedroom swims into focus. Gingerly, she rolls over... and into Tarrant's solid warmth next to her. Alice can't remember accepting a guest room in Hamish's residence, can't recall entering it or disrobing down to her shrift, either. In fact, the last thing she recalls is leaning her head back against the sofa cushions and curling up...

She glances over her shoulder at her husband's still-sleeping face and smiles. Somehow, Tarrant must have transported her to this bed. He'd even managed to remove her boots without waking her this time! Either he's getting more skillful at taking care of her or she's getting better at trusting him to do so. Or, perhaps, a bit of both.

Suddenly, the listless shifting in her abdomen intensifies and very nearly vibrates. Gasping, she pulls Tarrant's arm over her side and settles his palm against her belly and the activity within. She watches his expressions as he wakes: an instant of Objection, a moment of Stubbornness, a flicker of Contentment, a twinge of Awe, and then a ripple of...

_What? No, can't be_, she thinks.

But it _is._

Tarrant opens his eyes, green and unfocused. He nuzzles his cheek into her longer hair and sighs. "Alice..." He meets her gaze and there's a moment of Shame before he allows himself to show her what he truly feels. "Is it wrong for me to...?"

He moves closer to her and she feels his warmth all down her side, from shoulder to knee. She can't help but take note of that part of him against her hip.

"In the morning?" she wonders aloud, unable to even consider that he might find her swollen body _remotely_ appealing... well, That Way. "I'd say it's pretty usual by now..."

"No," he rumbles in her ear. "It's not morning yet. I was dreaming of you and..." His hand stirs on her belly, caresses. "And you've part of me inside you, Alice. And you wanted... you asked me to... you accepted, sought, took, gave, will give and it's... it's..." He groans softly into her hair. "Is it wrong for me to... think These Things?"

She swallows thickly as his hips move again, clarifying exactly what Sorts of Things he's thinking. "No, it's not wrong," she manages, her heart rate picking up. She closes her eyes and rolls the idea around in her head – his point of view: part of him has joined with part of her inside her; she'd Wanted this, had Offered... She shivers despite the fact that she always feels warm these days. Margaret and her mother had assured her the constant warmth is normal. But they had said nothing about the possibility of her husband _desiring _her like this!

"It's not wrong," she repeats, her voice husky even to her own ears and Tarrant nibbles at her ear. When she turns toward the heat of his mouth, he leans over her and gently curves his arm around the mound of her stomach.

"I'll ne'er forget th'way ye look, lass, carryin' our littlin'... I cannae find th'words teh d'scribe ye..."

"Try?" she asks, needing this reassurance.

"_Lovelish..._" he burrs. "_Beautrific... a-glouminous... prechlian... geminous... _My wife, my Alice..."

She moves closer to the sound of his voice and kisses him. She opens her arms to him and he shifts toward her. She still cannot _believe_ that they're doing _this_ in a borrowed bed, under the roof of a man who had once asked for Alice's hand... she cannot _believe_ that her Tarrant _desires_ her like _this_...

"Impossible," she murmurs as they move together. "That you want..."

"I do," he answers, his breath almost a whine. His gentle, nimble fingers weaving away at her pleasure. "I _do_ wan' ye, m'Alice. Can ye no'feel it?" he teases a bit breathlessly.

She closes her eyes, arcs against the mattress, gives herself over to him. Smiles. "Impossible thing number one: my husband will desire me because I carry his child."

"Number two," he continues, "My Alice will want _my_ child."

She gasps. "Three: we will dare to make love in _this _house."

"Four: we'll ne'er be apart."

His movements and ministrations mesmerize her and she feels her end approaching. Her victory. No, _his _victory. The victory he gives her. Thoughts and breath and words... all are gone as she feels the Intensity crash into her!

And as her pounding heart begins to subside, he shouts on a strangled breath, "Five! I'll-be-a-fa'her!"

And then his eyes lose their focus completely. The right pupil dilates and his breaths gasp. His body suddenly stills and his chest expands with each hard-won breath. Alice pushes his hair back over his shoulders, pets his skin, calls him back to her, here and now, in this borrowed bed in Hamish Ascot's house.

"Six," she concludes when his breaths have calmed somewhat and his blood has stopped racing. "I will love my husband more now than I did just a moment ago."

"My Alice," he answers between breaths, "have you already forgotten? That's not an impossible thing."

Alice smiles. "Neither are the rest of them."

Tarrant smiles back. She passes her fingertips over his lips and memorizes that smile, curls her fingers closed and keeps it safe in the palm of her hand, carries it with her as they rise and prepare to meet the dawn. And What Comes Next.

* * *

The duel.

Alice's stomach lurches as the carriage pulls to a halt. She grasps the handle of her valise a bit tighter, reminds herself that she's placed two throwing knives in her jacket pocket for convenience and that Tarrant wears his gauntlets – something he should have done the night of that damned soiree! – and tells herself that this is Hamish's fight and Hamish will be fine so she need not worry that Tarrant will be in danger.

No, there will be no mortal peril here today. She Believes that. She must.

Hamish measures their expressions with a long look and then says, "I'll give you a moment, shall I?" Sword box under his arm, he ducks out of the carriage before either of them can summon up a half-hearted protest.

Alice doesn't waste time; they only have a Moment.

She leans over and kisses her husband, her heart so full of fear and need and resignation and desperation she feels tears burn her eyes. "Choose us, no matter what happens. Please."

"I do. I shall. I will. I _have_, my Alice."

His gloved fingertips drift along her cheek and then the carriage rocks as he turns and steps outside. In the shadows, Alice watches and waits.

This is not Alice's first duel, but it is her first time witnessing one, and in all honesty she should not even be here, invading this time-honored and sacred gentlemen's rite.

She couldn't care less. She _needs _to be here. Her sanity and the heart line and the wellbeing of their child Demand it.

As this is Tarrant's first – and hopefully _only _and _last!_ – Uplandish duel, he follows Hamish's cues and introduces the two of them to the attending physician. The man frowns at Hamish, looking very disappointed. Hamish weathers the doctor's disapproval well, however. Alice can only imagine that they know each other. Perhaps the man will even tell Lord Ascot of this.

_Well, that's Hamish's problem._

Alice has Other Things to worry about.

The Manchester carriage pulls into the small field. Her hands fist so tightly in her jacket and skirt that, despite the gloves, she feels the muscles cramp.

_Please let Tarrant not need any of these potions..._

Alice doesn't know what she'll do if these basic health aides, with which the queen had equipped them before their journey, fail him. Or are not sufficient for his injuries. They have no more jabberwocky blood, no ready escape to Mamoreal's alchemy lab and Mirana's expertise in the healing arts.

Once again, they are alone.

Were it not for the fact that Hamish had truly been doing all that he could to help her sister and nephew, Alice is fairly certain she could have browbeaten or blackmailed Hamish into apologizing. Or perhaps that's merely wishful thinking on her part. But it matters not! For here they are.

It is a shame, however, that Hamish and Lowell do not fight for her sister's freedom – for that would truly be something worth fighting for! They fight for honor. Or the shallow, hollow dream that it is.

She'd very much like to kill Lowell for forcing all of them into this situation. She damns him, his weakness, he need for alcohol and mistresses and brothels and gambling and _what in the world is __**wrong**__ with the man?_ How could her father have _missed_ the _**sickness**_in him? _Why _had Charles Kingsleigh looked the other way when Margaret, cheeks flushed and eyes sparkling, had announced that Lowell had proposed?

If there were ever one thing Alice would dare to think ill of her father for, it would be this.

Or, perhaps not. Perhaps he had merely been drawn in by his own hope: hope that marriage to Margaret would draw Lowell away from his flaws and weaknesses, would strengthen him, would change him for the better.

Alice is glad her father had not lived to be disappointed. Marriage has, in fact, pushed Lowell as far away from Better as one can possibly get: he has since become Worse.

If the reports from the investigator Hamish had hired are to be believed (and also if Hamish can be trusted not to skew that information in the retelling), then the man has been steadily wearing his way through and using up favors and compassion from both friends and family at an alarmingly increasing rate.

Lowell Manchester had had no business _whatsoever _getting married at all!

Alice is sure her father must have known this. Certainly, Charles Kingsleigh had had Lowell's finances checked. His habits reported on. Undoubtedly, he'd already heard rumors about the man's... proclivities. And yet... And yet he'd never raised a single objection to the match. He'd said nothing at all.

Giving Lowell the benefit of the doubt? Or a second chance? Alice wonders, but then decides it does not matter. Now they are all victims to her father's mad dream of an impossible outcome.

Alice _hates_ – despises, abhors, detests! – that Tarrant has been pulled into this. Of every rotten facet of the situation, that is the worst! But neither she nor Tarrant can – in good conscience – leave Hamish, his good intentions, and his honor at the mercy of one of his useless, poncy peers. Not when he had dared to _not_ ignore the fact that Alice's sister is trapped in a marriage of humiliation and shame. Not when he had glimpsed only more of the same on the horizon for her.

Oh, if only they had more time!

Time. Yes, in this instance, Time could not be more cruel.

Alice places her hands over her belly, feels the baby roll over then settle, and curses the Time that makes her, Tarrant, and their child so vulnerable. It's true that Alice would duel Lowell herself if she could! It's true that, in the past, she has dueled for less!

But now she and Tarrant have so much more to lose than simply each other.

If the creditors would but wait until after Christmas – and the birth of their child! – she would not be so fearful; she would not wonder or dread what might happen to their child should anything... adversely affect her heart line. She hates that their child is at the mercy of her body, an imperfect body, a body with unimaginable strength but also a frightening weakness. But they cannot wait until their child is born; Lowell's debts cannot be put off any longer and this had been Hamish's chance to save Margaret's marriage. If only Lowell had signed the blasted contract!

But no. He'd let his dumb pride get in the way. He'd demanded this fight. This duel.

Alice shivers even though the combined body heat – her own and the baby's – ensures that she is rarely cold. Bad Things happen during duels. Men loose their heads, behave foolishly while armed with dangerous weapons. She's heard the stories of how often there are... accidents. How often the Seconds end up fighting each other with just as much ferocity as the named combatants.

She will kill Lowell's Second if he so much as takes a step in her husband's direction!

_Stop_, she tells herself, focusing on the weight of the throwing knife that had somehow wandered into her grasp. She cannot permit her anxiety to reach Tarrant. He must focus now. _She_ must focus now.

All is not lost. For even if Lowell loses the fight, he _may_ reconsider the contract. Surely he can keep his nose clean for a few months, until his birthday and his annual salary is awarded to him for the following year!

And, although she hates to think it, Hamish losing the fight – safely! – would not be a total disaster. The very fact that Lowell would have managed to defend his honor might actually stretch him along a bit more with his creditors, up his standing, buy him a smidgeon of leeway.

Alice admits she had been wrong to imply that Hamish's actions are not noble. In fact, she knows of no nobler man in all of Upland. But she knows she's not wrong to assume that his motivations for doing this are... emotional. Alice knows what kind of... _attachment_ would inspire this sort of defensive scheming and risk-taking, this willingness to face one's own mortality.

She knows what it takes to inspire someone to risk so much for a dream.

Across the clearing, Lowell and his Second emerge from their carriage.

They face Hamish and Tarrant across a modest distance.

Hamish offers no apology.

The swords are inspected and, despite the frost on the ground and the chill in the morning air, coats and jackets are doffed.

Hamish and Lowell face off in their trousers and shirtsleeves and, in the instant before the first blow is landed, Alice hopes these last few months of fencing lessons will not have been for naught.

Lowell attacks first.

Alice watches, the throwing knife in her hand and the valise they'd quietly rushed through her mother's house to pack at her feet. She keeps her attention on Lowell's Second, for the most part. But, remembering the underhanded play Stayne had tried so long ago, she also watches the combatants, too.

Lowell is good, surprisingly. Perhaps the man is angry enough to focus. Or perhaps he'd merely burned through the booze with several cups of coffee this morning. It matters not. He's a threat.

He steps confidently, attacks quickly, lunges smoothly.

Yes, he's quite good.

Hamish, however, is clearly Better.

Although the man has merely his recent interest in fencing to guide him, he uses those skills effectively. Alice glimpses his footwork and combination lunge-parry-lunge-turn-strike-parry! with interest. Hopefully, if Hamish is this good, Tarrant really will have something to teach her when she's able to learn it!

She slaps the wayward thought aside and shifts her attention back to Lowell's Second. The man hasn't moved from his stance near the carriage. In fact, he appears utterly indifferent to the fight. Or perhaps he is merely indifferent to Lowell.

Which _could _mean that...

The man had not agreed to be Lowell's Second out of camaraderie, but out of warmongering.

_No_, she tells herself, _Tarrant will not have to fight!_

She had purposefully left this point out of their six impossible things for today. She will not risk making the necessity of her husband's safety an unconquerable obstacle, an unavoidable tragedy.

Tarrant will not have to fight!

Hamish sidesteps a jab and returns it with a brief slash which catches Lowell's sleeve before the man manages to block it. Alice watches as red blossoms on the white fabric of his torn sleeve and wishes the terms of the duel had been confined to first blood. However...

Lowell redoubles his efforts, circling Hamish and attacking with a flurry of fairly predictable – but _fast!_ – left-right-left-right! assault.

_Watch your flank!_ she wants to yell but bites her tongue instead.

Lowell lunges low, catches Hamish in the thigh, near his knee. The man stumbles back, keeps his guard up, and ignores the damp fabric clinging to the wound beneath the fine wool of his trousers.

Lowell preens.

Hamish scowls and performs a pathetically half-hearted lunge at the man's chest. Lowell blocks it easily and Hamish – daringly! – uses the momentum to spin himself, pivot smartly on his good leg and return the favor, slicing open Lowell's pant leg along the back of his thigh.

Lowell curses and flinches away.

Favoring their wounds, they once again face off.

Shirtsleeves are ripped, trousers torn, flesh sliced and punctured, but no one moves to execute a fatal blow.

As the minutes are trampled beneath booted feet and crushed into the frosty, nearly frozen ground, Lowell's arm becomes less steady, trembles with exhaustion. His feet drag and his knees refuse to bend as readily as they had. Hamish, however... Hamish's recent training has clearly paid off – or, rather, it _will _pay off if the man can keep his wits about him, draw Lowell in, disarm him and finish the fight.

She continues to divide her attention between the duelists and their Seconds, relieved that Tarrant is still alert.

A shout goes up from the center of the clearing: Lowell.

And Alice would have looked away if not for the suspicious shrug of the Second's shoulder. Before she can do more than lift the throwing knife and aim, Tarrant has already thrown one of his own. It strikes the man in the shoulder joint – deeply, if his shocked gasp and widened eyes are any indication! – through the layers of his coat, jacket, vest, and shirt. His hand, dangling at his side, spasms open and a small pistol drops to the ground.

Tarrant raises a hand, shakes his head, and waggles a finger at the man. "I wouldnae b' doin'tha' again, if'n ye're hopin' teh keep th'use o'yer other arm," he warns softly.

Gritting his teeth, the man reaches up and pulls the small throwing knife from his flesh. He weighs it in the fingers of his left hand for a moment and then Alice sees a _malicious_ gleam flash through his eyes. In the next instant, the knife is spinning through the air...

... right at Hamish.

There is nothing Alice can do. Nothing Tarrant can do. It all happens so fast and there are no cats with evaporating skills or bloodhounds to knock the man out of the way.

There is, however, a rock.

At the precise moment Alice realizes the danger he's in, he steps backward.

Trips.

His arms flail wide.

Lowell lunges forward, blade trained on Hamish's chest.

And the little steel throwing knife strikes the nearest target: Lowell's shoulder.

"Bloody _hell!_"

Lowell flinches, steps back, his sour expression twisted with pain: Hamish has regained his footing; the chance to end the fight has been lost. Furious, Lowell glances up at the Seconds, from one to the other.

"That's Hightopp's knife in your shoulder," his man informs him, gesturing for Lowell to back up toward him so he can pull it out.

The doctor waves the man away. Hamish gapes at Tarrant, who sends the other Second a furious glare from beneath his hat.

Lowell screams, "You gutless cheat! Ascot! Is this how you fight for your _honor?_"

"No, it is not!" he protests. He stomps – as menacingly as his wounds allow – over to Tarrant as the doctor examines the knife still in Lowell's shoulder. "Why in the world would you dare to bring... bloody... _throwing knives!_" Hamish spits on a whisper, "to a _duel?_"

Tarrant is not given a chance to answer.

"What the _blazes _were you _thinking?_" Alice hears Hamish hiss in Tarrant's ear. "I _explained _that this was to be a fight between Manchester and myself!"

"Mayhap no one informed Manchester's mahn o'that," Tarrant growls back, keeping his eyes on the subject of his speculation. "Ye asked me wha't I was thinkin'? I was thinking tha'm'Alice woul'nae want me teh ge'shot by tha'booly grommer!"

"_Shot?_" Hamish sputters, looking across the clearing at Lowell's Second.

Alice is not a little bit surprised to note a sudden and utter lack of surprise in either Hamish's tone or expression as he takes note of the man. "Blakefield," he growls, encapsulating a History in that one word. His next are spoken so softly she almost doesn't hear them: "You _would_ bring a pistol to _my _duel, you cheat."

"Ye're nae su'prised," Tarrant observes.

Hamish rounds on him. "I'm not surprised that _you_ would bring knives here, either! You're a wretched cheat, Hightopp. You _know _I have to win or lose on my own merits!"

"Aye, I do. An' I was willin teh le'ye do so. Howe'er, Blakefield seems teh've felt o'herwise." Tarrant continues on a rumble, "Bu'nauw I'm thinkin' 'twas fortuitous ye'd stumbled o'er yer own feet, Ascot 'r tha'mahn wouldae foun'dis mark in _ye _wi'_my_ dag'her."

"You... Wait a moment. _You_ didn't throw it at Lowell?"

Tarrant nods across the clearing. "He's th'one wi'th' bluddy shoulder an' th'pistol a'his feet!"

Lowell, having overheard this, shouts, "This is an _outrage!_ How dare you accuse Blakefield of such underhanded treachery!"

"I'll accuse where it's warranted," Tarrant replies, his mood shifting suddenly, speaking in a tone eerily similar to that of the voice of the Blackness. Alice focuses on calm, on rationality, on confidence and Sends him what strength she can. His posture straightens from the crouch he'd been leaning forward into. His hands uncurl from their claw-like arrangement before fisting.

Alice breathes a sigh of relief.

The relief itself, however, is short-lived.

"Doctor Jameson...!" Hamish begins.

"Don't ask me for verification, sir. I was attending to _my patients._" The man removes the knife without warning and, ignoring Lowell's squeal of pain, presses a cloth against his shoulder. "And, by the way, if either of you would like _my _opinion, I believe this fight is over. For today at any rate. Continue to fight in the condition you're both in and I can promise neither of you will be pleased with the consequences."

Tarrant gently shoves Hamish in the direction of the carriage. He then crosses the field and collects the sword Lowell had dropped and holds out his hand for the throwing knife which the doctor returns to him with a disgusted grimace. Hamish waits at the carriage door, swaying on his feet and bleeding, but he doesn't take his eyes off of Lowell's Second. Alice doubts he could do anything to prevent another attack on Tarrant now, but that's not the point. Hamish stays outside and waits for his friend to safely cross the field and Alice could kiss him for watching her husband's back, for this show of solidarity. She keeps the throwing knife at the ready and watches from the shadows. Just in case.

And, in this case...

She watches as Tarrant navigates the field, weapons in hand, his eyes flashing peridot green with uneasiness and suspicion. She watches as Manchester's Second simply smiles, a gesture that could have been a polite goodbye if not for the gun still lying at his feet. She watches as Tarrant kneels, locks both swords in the case, yet keeps the small throwing knife held lengthwise between the first and middle fingers of his right hand. She watches as he tucks the sword case under his arm and steps toward the carriage.

"Ascot!" Lowell shouts.

Hamish looks up and glares tiredly at his aversary.

"We'll finish this another day."

Hamish nods then permits Tarrant to usher him into the carriage. Tarrant follows, raps on the roof and the driver snaps the reins and then they're...

Alice watches as they pull away from the clearing. She glimpses the doctor getting into his own coach and Blakefield helping Lowell into his.

It's over.

For now.

Alice slides the knife into her coat pocket; in this case, she hadn't needed to use it.

"Alice? A bit of Pain Paste?" Tarrant whispers.

She hands it over, turns her face toward the window and doesn't watch as Tarrant treats Hamish's wounds. And Hamish is too tired to object to the strange medicine. Alice closes her eyes, focuses on Tarrant's presence – so close! and safe! and _hers! _– shudders, holds herself together just a bit longer...

They drop Hamish off at his home and Alice waits while Tarrant sees him safely inside. No doubt Hamish will wonder how his cuts could have been healed so quickly. No doubt he'll brood about the next duel. Luckily, he'll be in better condition for it than Lowell will.

Alice holds herself together until Tarrant strides down the steps, speaks to the driver, then ducks back into the carriage and pulls her into his arms.

They don't go home.

Not right away.

They circle the city, immerse themselves in its bustling noise...

... so that they do not have to speak. For this is a Silence that, when broken may never be mended. Alice sits on his lap with his arm around her waist and his hand against her belly and their child sometimes rolling or spinning within her. She pulls herself as close as she can get to him:

Her husband.

A hatter, the father of their child, and – she finally realizes – a True Champion.

* * *

[End of Chapter 18: Scenes 1 & 2]


	118. Book 3, Worth Fighting For, 2 of 2

**NOTE: **This chapter is rated** M **for (non-explicit) reference to **domestic ****violence****. ****  
**

* * *

_**Chapter Eighteen: Worth Fighting For  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

The fight is not over.

The fight is _never _over.

And finally, Alice understands why Tarrant had despaired all those years ago – when they'd lain side-by-side at the edge of the queen's croquet pitch in Mamoreal, enjoying the sunshine and the thick turf and the hard-earned break in combat training – and he had asked... no, begged, _pleaded_ for her _not to choose the life of a champion._ Finally, Alice Understands his heartache at the thought of her knowingly accepting the duties of the Queen's Champion.

_"... you'll never know peace,"_ he'd said. _"...Once you step on this path, there will be no leaving it."_

There will be no leaving it for either of them.

The moment Tarrant had ushered Hamish toward the carriage, had braved the silent battlefield alone to collect his friend's (and his own) weapons, had performed that function _alone..._

Alone.

Vulnerable.

Mortal.

When one accepts the Duties, they accept that the Duty supersedes their own safety, their own wants, their own life.

Alice had watched Tarrant do just that.

Like her, he had offered up himself to fate, to whatever omniscient power may have been watching.

That sort of sacrifice leaves a mark on a person's soul. A scar that will never heal. Alice Sees it now, Feels it. Strange that she'd never noticed it before. Unbearable that it had taken Tarrant's sacrifice to Show it to her. She should have recognized it before, for when Tarrant had warned her away from becoming the Champion (for good!) he'd spoken from experience: he'd spoken of a Sacrifice so great that, even though it had not been required in the end, he had never been quite the same thereafter.

His Sacrifice had been his future.

Tarrant had offered himself up to the Red Queen. Had gotten himself captured to buy her time, had conspired with her to gain the one weapon that could defeat their greatest enemy in combat, had surrendered his own life so that she might escape.

Tarrant Hightopp had been her Champion, then, wielding nothing more than two bolts of fabric, a sunhat, an iron dress-frame, a powder puff, and a bottle of perfume. Shackled to the consequences of resisting, he had Fought for her, for the Vorpal Sword, for Hope. He had unflinchingly given up his life.

That sort of thing, never truly leaves a person, Alice realizes. The confrontation with one's own mortality never ends.

The fight is _never _over.

"Alice?"

She closes her eyes and bites her lip. She will _not _cry about this. Not _now!_ Not when it is far, far too late!

"Alice, what is it, Raven?"

His hands grasp hers and she feels Strength and Love and Warmth surround her heart, blossom in her chest. The pressure pushes out the tears she is trying so desperately to conquer, control.

Control. Since becoming the Queen's Champion, her life has become – has _been!_ – all about Control. And Tarrant, having already Known what she would be feeling, had permitted her that. For her sake, he had Given that to her whenever she had not blatantly Taken it.

And, to her shame, she realizes she'd once thought his greatest Gift of Thoughtfulness had been to forgive Leif his transgression against them.

Oh, how utterly Blind she'd been!

"I'm sorry," she whispers. And she is. Every tear is an apology; a tragic sonnet wrapped in a riddle, distilled in a rhyme the shape of sorrow. She raises her hands to his face. "I'll be better. Us. We'll be _us_ now. Not _me _and _you_, but _**us.**_"

She knows she's not making any sense. Oh, how she wants to tell him she's sorry she never noticed their matching scars! Oh, how she wants to reassure him that she'll never dominate their decisions again!

She tells him, "I've finally noticed: without you, there's no me."

Two halves.

Partners.

Equals.

And their fight is not over.

"My Alice," he whispers into her hair, breathes relief and wonder against her tresses. "You're terribly late, you know. Naughty."

And she laughs, sputters tears against his vest, coughs thickly into the fabric.

She doesn't deserve to be forgiven for This.

But he _does_ forgive her. Unconditionally. And in... "Iambic pentameter."

"I'm considering things that begin with the letter 'M'," he replies with a smile rather than a giggle. Alice sighs against his vest and, sitting beside him, only half-dressed for luncheon with her mother, Alice joins him in that silent pursuit.

She considers Miracles and Magic and Madness and Muchness and Mirrors and Missions... and she knows he's right.

The fight is not over; they've Uplandish Logic and Disbelief yet to slay if Mirana is ever going to be able to step through that looking glass when Alice has need of her.

They spend over a week considering those things that begin with the letter M. Oddly enough, it is another M-word that provides the catalyst for the conversation they Must have...

"Margaret! I haven't seen you in days!" Alice accuses her.

"I'm so sorry. Lowell's been feeling a bit under the weather. A slight infection, I think. But he's on the mend now."

"Well," Helen comments with a polite smile, "that's good to hear." She sets aside her knitting and leans toward Margaret without getting up off of the sofa. Opening her arms, she wordlessly demands an exclusive visit with her grandson.

"How's the loom-work coming along, Tarrant?" Margaret asks as she surrenders the wiggling boy to Helen's arms. Margaret's sleeves ride up her arms a bit with the motion and Alice is startled by the sudden _Rage_ she feels from Tarrant. She follows his gaze – which has always and only ever been beautifully green in her family's presence – to the finger-shaped bruises on her sister's pale wrists.

Helen notices as well. Winslow fusses and pats his grandmother's cheek but Helen is transfixed by those marks. "Margaret..." she whispers.

"Are you injured elsewhere?" Alice asks, standing with difficulty. She wishes she could charge across the room and... and... _do __**something!**_ As it is, she merely waddles and snarls. "What did that beast do to you?"

"Alice, please, calm down! It was only the fever and... and it was an accident!"

"An' tha'one, tae?" Tarrant interjects in a dark tone. His gaze is fixed on Margaret's jaw and, once she looks for it, Alice can see the faint discoloration of a faded bruise.

"You're not going back there unless he calms down!" Helen commands.

"I'll kill him," Alice declares.

"He'll ne'er touch ye again!" Tarrant agrees.

Tarrant's voice – rumbling with rage and the promise of Pain – and his curling fingers and fisting hands do not pull Alice from her own ruminations of retribution. It is her sister's gasp and her mother's cringe that successfully to catch her attention.

She follows their horrified gazes, looks up at her husband... and into his unfocused _red _eyes.

Forcing herself to calm down despite knowing – and imagining! – what that louse had done to her sister is nearly as hard as having to watch Tarrant be a Champion. And because it is merely _nearly _as hard, she manages it.

"Tarrant," she whispers, Nudges, reaches out a hand to rub his shoulder.

He gives himself a small shake. "I'm sorry." And, oh, how he is! She can Sense it as his regret pulses against her heart. "I'm _so _sorry, Alice. Forgive me...?"

And somehow she Knows what he can't say aloud, here, now. She remembers a conversation beneath ever-blossoming cherry trees following her sixth duel in the name of the White Queen. It had been years ago, but he's never forgiven himself for needing her as much as he had. She knows what he'd say if he could. She knows he'd call himself _slurvish_ for _chaining_ her to him.

And no matter how many times she's told him otherwise, he can't believe – accept, acknowledge – the fact that she hadn't – has never! – been _chained:_ Tarrant Hightopp had – and continues each day to – set her _free!_

But now... now there is another weight upon his conscience. He has lost control. In the presence of her mother and sister. And now they will have to explain...

Alice is not ready for this.

But, then again, she's not sure she ever will be...

"Tarrant, your eyes..."

Both of them look up at her mother, drawn to do so by Helen's faint tone.

"Did I just imagine that your eyes were... different? Just now?"

"Yes," Alice says at the same moment Tarrant reflexively answers with a resigned, "No."

The sound of the clock in the room resonates in the silence.

Finally, Tarrant turns to her, places his hands on her shoulders and says, "Alice, we do your mother and your sister a disservice by attempting to conceal very Obvious truths from them."

"The truth," Alice counters softly, "can be a terrible burden to bear."

Tarrant reaches for and grasps her fingers. "I know." Alice watches as his sympathy melts into determination. He looks up and across the room at Mrs. Kingsleigh. "If you truly wish to know what it is we have not yet said, then _we _will tell you..."

Alice glances at Tarrant again, smiles wanly when he squeezes her captured fingers, and turns back to her mother. Whether she's ready or not, Now is the time.

"Have a seat Margaret. Please."

Tarrant fetches two chairs – one for Alice and one for himself – and places them opposite the sofa. Alice seats herself, wonders how to begin, spies the glove on her left hand, and reaches for Tarrant's.

"Tarrant's people aren't like us." Tarrant nervously watches as she gently takes his hand in her lap and pulls the glove from his left hand.

Margaret gasps at the sight of the heart line. Helen looks weary, as if she'd nearly managed to convince herself the sight of it had merely been a harmless nightmare.

"This isn't a tattoo, mother," she tells them both. "It's a permanent mark created from three drops of blood. In his case, three drops of _my _blood. The color of which is reflected in the mark itself."

Tarrant collects her left hand, slides the silver ring from her finger and then pulls her glove off as well. She takes a deep breath and prays for muchness.

"Just as the color of the mark on my skin reflects the color of Tarrant's blood."

Margaret looks a breath away from passing out. Helen, however, stares at her daughter's hand and hesitantly reaches for it. Alice allows her to take it. Winslow, still far too young to understand what is amiss, although he senses it, whimpers for his mother. Margaret reaches for him and pulls her onto her lap, anchors herself with his small, squirming body.

"You've just seen Tarrant's eyes change color," Alice continues, "corresponding to his emotions. And his blood... is not like ours. Tarrant comes from people very different from us, mother. And, if you can accept that, then, perhaps you can also imagine that the land which gave rise to such wondrous beings might be vastly different from the one you know. Might be... magical, even."

Helen studies her daughter's hand, now held in her own. "You hands are rough, Alice. Tarrant, you work in the hat-making and tailoring trades, do you not?"

"I do," he admits in a rasping voice.

Helen pauses at that. "And does my daughter work beside you in your trade?"

"No!" Alice very nearly flinches at the force of the conviction in his reply. The heart line flares and Tarrant's discomfort manifests; his eyes adopt a shade of simmering yellow; he rambles-grumbles-rants, "Imagine Alice staining her hands! Slicing open her fingers! Pricking her skin in the name of fashionable accessories! The Idea is ludicrous, madam! Alice is our Champion!"

Oh, _thwimble fumpt!_ Alice had most definitely _not _intended to bring that up. Yet. Or _ever._

But Tarrant will not be shushed. Not quite yet: "She is the champion to the queen. The Queen's Champion."

"What does that mean, Alice?" Helen presses.

Alice closes her eyes and wishes for a third vial of Jabberwocky blood. When moments pass and none appears, she reluctantly explains, "It means I'm the queen's steward. I protect her and her children."

Helen shakes her head in disbelief. "Alice, you don't know how to... protect someone."

"I've learned."

"No..."

"I've made a promise. A promise to the rightful ruler of the place where I belong. A promise to protect the people that I _love_." Alice doesn't have to look in Tarrant's direction to know he is experiencing the depth of her commitment.

"Mother," she continues, "would you not fight for your family? If... there was ever a need?"

"But these people... they are _not _your family, Alice."

Alice sighs. She pulls her hand from her mother's grasp and gives up the argument. For now. "That's the situation, mother."

Helen is silent.

Margaret, oddly enough, is not: "Alice, these things you claim. They are impossible!"

"Tell me Tarrant has hazel eyes, Margaret," Alice dares her. "Go on and explain away the fact that you just witnessed his eyes go from green to red and back again, and then to yellow and green."

Margaret opens her mouth. Closes it. Pulls her son closer to her. "I can't."

"There is such a thing as magic," Alice says to her family. "And if you can find it in yourselves to believe in it, to give the impossible a chance, then..."

"Then what, Alice?" Helen asks.

Alice sighs. "Then I won't have to choose between There and... Here."

Yes, it's a decision she'd already made once. It had been a painful one then. And although she knows exactly which she would – must! – choose if forced to do so again, she doesn't fool herself into believing the pain will have diminished in the slightest.

Again, Silence wanders into the room with them. Leans back in an armchair, crosses its legs, and settles in. Margaret's whisper barely disturbs it: "Time, Alice. Give us some time to think about this... _Understand_..."

Alice nods. "Of course." Although she doubts either of them truly can.

Margaret looks at her son, smoothes his wispy hair back from his forehead. "This is all happening so fast... so much has... I just can't..."

"What is it, dear? You know we won't allow Lowell to handle you so roughly again! You'll stay here and we'll sort him out," Helen assures her.

Margaret manages a watery smile. "I... thank you, mother, but I don't think that will be necessary. I... I received a visit from Lord Manchester yesterday evening. He's sending Lowell away. To the Americas. To open a new branch office. It's all been arranged."

"What?" Alice sputters, too shocked to wish she could take back her graceless and tactless reaction.

"He's leaving this weekend. They're packing now. At the house, I mean. Now that his fever has broken and he's on the mend..."

"Will you be going with him?"

"No, no, I won't. Lord Manchester has encouraged me to stay; a voyage like that would be difficult for me and dangerous for Winslow." She bounces him on her knees for a moment and he squeals with delight. Softly, she continues, "Lord Manchester also mentioned that he'd very much like it if, when Win's of age, he would apprentice with the company." Margaret fidgets. "In all honesty, he gave me the impression that... Lowell will not be welcome should he return to England."

"Oh... my!" Helen exclaims.

Alice wonders just how much her sister knows about her own husband. "Perhaps he's caused some sort of trouble for his family recently..." she speculates.

"Dueling," Margaret reluctantly mutters. "At least, I'm fairly sure. Lord Manchester was... livid."

Alice imagines he had been. But not due to the dueling. Well, not merely due to the dueling.

Alice glances at Tarrant who is trying his best to not only hide his smile but sit peacefully on what she suspects is a _very _strong urge to Futterwhacken right here and now!

"Come with me, Margaret," she invites, standing with Tarrant's hand under her elbow to assist her. "I have something that will take care of those bruises by the end of tea."

"Tea!" Tarrant suddenly interjects, as if he'd forgotten about the subject completely. "Yes, yes, the tea tray will not assemble itself!"

"Winslow and I shall keep you company as you do so, sir," Helen answers, once again silently demanding her grandson be placed in her arms.

Margaret sends a wary sidelong glance at Tarrant.

Alice remarks, "He hasn't changed in the last half an hour, Margaret!"

"No, no, it's fine, Alice," Tarrant lisps. "I wouldn't want the tea tray to feel slighted should I neglect to give it my full attention."

"Tarrant..." she protests but he merely brushes his fingers over her cheek, dons his glove again, and strides from the room. Moments after the door closes behind him, Alice continues to stare at it rather than attack her sister with an accusing gaze.

"I'm sorry, Alice," she whispers, passing Winslow to Helen and standing. "I just... that was rather... frightening and he's so strange..."

"Perhaps," Alice answers in a tightly controlled voice. "It is us Londoners who are strange and Tarrant normal. Have you ever thought of that?"

Her sister has no answer to the challenge.

Alice takes a deep breath and scolds herself for being so impatient. She'd known this wouldn't be easy.

"Right. Come upstairs with me and we'll get you fixed up." She does. And, as Alice collects the pot of Pain Paste while Margaret disrobes in her old room, Alice takes a moment to consider that, despite the uneasiness that exists between her sister and Tarrant now, there _is _good news to celebrate:

Lowell is leaving.

Possibly for good.

And, if Margaret so desires, in two years she might file for divorce, citing abandonment. It would still be scandalous but not nearly as shameful as Hamish's solution would have been. Few people will blame Margaret for divorcing Lowell under _these_ circumstances and Alice wonders if the Manchesters will object to Margaret getting remarried one day.

Still those are thoughts of a far distant future. Still, it is a _possible _future! And one that had not existed a week – or even a few days! – ago.

And she ponders the possibility that the duel – and Hamish's outrageous contract – had somehow played a part in all of this. Had Lowell's inability to defend his honor finally pushed his father over the edge? Or is Lowell's financial situation more dire than the investigator (and Hamish) had described?

Regardless, Lowell will no longer be an embarrassment to his family or his wife. Not for years to come. And, by then, Lowell's self destructive tendencies may well come to fruition. America is a wilder place than England, Alice has heard. Perhaps too wild for Lowell. Regardless, the width of an ocean is a safe enough distance from Margaret and Winslow. The man will finally be able to do whatever he likes and, Alice imagines, he will finally learn what it means to stand on one's own two feet.

Perhaps he will return the better for the experience.

Perhaps he will stumble into trouble he cannot squirm his way out of.

For the moment, it doesn't matter.

Alice collects the ointment from Mamoreal and joins her sister. She soothes away Margaret's bruises: one on her upper arm, the two on her wrists, and the faded one on her cheek.

"It's a poor gift to leave you with," Alice remarks.

Margaret glances down at the blemishes. "But a memorable one," she admits. "Should he return, I will not welcome him back so readily."

"No, for Winnie's sake, I don't imagine you should. Just tell me one thing, sister," Alice continues in a gentle tone, "I'll do and say nothing to anyone else, but I need to know... Has Lowell hurt you in other... Was he so out of control he...?" Gathering her muchness, Alice blurts, "Did he attack you?"

"No!" Margaret replies, eyes wide and expression showing nothing but shock... and then disgust. "No. He didn't. He only grabbed me roughly."

"And struck you in the face."

Margaret sighs. "You won't believe that it was the wall that did it."

"I might if Lowell had shoved you into it."

"After he arrived home, I tried to tend to his injuries. He pushed me back. I tripped on my skirt and..." She looks up. "I _am _telling you the truth, Alice. Please do not entirely blame Lowell for this. He is... ill. Ill in mind and body. And nothing I've done has helped him." She lowers her head and sighs. "I've given up."

"No," Alice answers. "No, you haven't given up, you've chosen your son's future. He'll have a comfortable life with Lord Manchester looking after the two of you and offering him a place in the business when he's of age."

"He still needs a father," Margaret admits.

"But not today, dear sister. Let that be a worry for another time."

She nods.

No, the fight is not over. Not for any of them.

Winslow still needs a father.

Alice still has to explain about Underland and the queen's impending visit.

She leans forward and embraces her sister. Margaret sighs out a long breath and rests her head on her shoulder. They sit, thus, on Margaret's old bed, in a room she had once filled with adolescent hopes and innocent dreams and romantic expectations of a simple and happy life.

No, Margaret hadn't found that life, hadn't lived those dreams.

Not yet.

Alice closes her eyes and feels a smile curve her lips.

The fight is not over.

The fight for Margaret's happiness will continue.

And Alice must continue the fight to keep her mother and her sister in her life, even after she returns to Underland.

These will not be small battles – not in the least! – but she has never fought one more worth the effort.

Yes, some things – _these things! – _are worth fighting for!

* * *

Notes:

1. Why is Lowell so horrid in OPK? Well, frankly, the guy's at the end of his rope. He's failed as a husband and a son. He's frustrated he couldn't successfully trounce Hamish. His debts are coming due and he'll be sent to prison if he can't pay them. I actually feel for the guy. That's no excuse to manhandle his wife, though! (And no, I'm NOT suggesting a history of violence in their marriage. Nor am I suggesting that a sexual assault occurred. NOT AT ALL.)

* * *

[End of Chapter 18]


	119. Book 3, The Next Hightopp, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Nineteen: The Next Hightopp  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

"Alice!"

At the sound of her sister's nearly-scandalized tone, Alice looks up from the slice of pound cake she'd been unknowingly contemplating. In truth, her mind is still spinning out the possibilities that Lowell's imminent departure has opened up. She wonders if Hamish might... Or if she or Tarrant should perhaps mention something to Margaret... But no. It's too soon. Lowell hasn't even left the country yet!

Perhaps, if there ever were an occasion for an unnecessary slice of cake, this would be it. Still, Alice knows she shouldn't, not with the typical early London winter making her usual brisk walks impossible.

No, no more cake this week, Alice!

Well, no more today.

And then, recalling the cook's truly heavenly puddings, amends: _No more cake until after dinner._

Blast it all, but maybe Alice _should_ have spent the duration of her pregnancy in Underland. At least there, when the food calls her name it's not a product of her overactive imagination (or, perhaps, lack of willpower)! Of course the food Up Here doesn't speak. Not like Thackery's Contrary Crumpets and Gooseberry Guilters and... Yes, perhaps being forced to subsist on a diet that talks back would have been a much Better option all around...

"Alice!"

"Hm? Oh, sorry. Where's the fire?" Not in the lavatory – which Margaret had just purportedly visited – she hopes!

Margaret sits down in her chair and holds out her hands in front of her over the demolished tea service. "They're gone! Completely gone!" she exclaims, wide eyed.

And, indeed, they are. The bruises that had marred her sister's skin and had initiated the much-needed but much-more-dreaded and utterly-unplanned revelations of her husband's Otherness have disappeared.

Margaret continues, speaking as if she can't trust the reality of her own skin and senses, "That ointment you used..."

"I told you they'd be taken care of by the end of teatime," she replies drolly.

"But this is..." Margaret visibly flounders.

Alice resists the urge to accuse her of being flunderwhapped... aloud.

"Impossible?" Alice gently suggests. Then she smiles and glancing in her husband's direction, winks. "Only if you believe it is," she concludes and is rewarded with a wide hatter grin and a boyish giggle.

"But how...? This is_ impossible_, Alice! How could you... and I... and it... and it shouldn't have worked so well! Not at _all!_"

Tarrant barks out a cackle. "That is nearly word-for-word what Ascot said the other day! Why, by the time we'd traveled back to the townhouse all those cuts and scratches and so on had made themselves _quite_ scarce!" Why Alice doesn't think to Pinch him or Nudge him to shut off his ramble at this point, she doesn't know. Later, she blames her pregnancy, for certainly if she weren't utilizing so much brain power fending off unnecessary helpings of sweets, she would have managed to circumvent that particular revelation!

"Of course," Tarrant blithely continues, "poor chap was too exhausted to really _notice_ his renewed health until much later, but... Alice! I _must _warn you: that man is after something called a trade agreement and he's looking rather... fiercely Muchy about it!"

No, Alice's only though at this point is how she's ever going to successfully deal with a _fiercely **Muchy**_ Hamish Ascot. (Which she has to admit is a rather alarming thing to contemplate, indeed!) It's only after Margaret inhales sharply and straightens in her chair that she _realizes_ what had just Slipped out...

Margaret turns to Tarrant, who is playing with Winslow's bare toes. The toddler squeals and giggles, twitching and writhing with delight in Helen's tolerant embrace.

"Tarrant?" Margaret asks pointedly.

"Hm? Oh! I _beg_ your pardon, madam!" he fairly shouts, withdrawing his fingers at once. "I meant no harm! I was simply investigating things that begin with the unique sensation of ticklishness. It's a favorite pastime of Alice's – this particular topic of contemplation – and perhaps her Curiosity is paying me a visit today—"

"Along with my good sense," Alice mutters, chastising herself for not finding a way to keep Tarrant from mentioning Hamish's suspicious injuries.

"Tarrant," Margaret interrupts with urgency. "What's all this about Hamish being injured?"

"Oh, but he isn't any longer! Marvelous thing, Pain Paste... if it _can_ be called a Thing. Perhaps it's more of a substance than a..." Margaret's Look must be really something because Tarrant _stops right there_. "Ahem... Yes, yes, Ascot is fit as a fish's fin!"

"But he _was_ injured?" she demands. "What happened last week that he would require...? And... Is this whatever-it-is the reason he hasn't been by yet to take you off to the club today?"

"Er, no, madam. That would be because today is Thursday. If my shoes are correct, that is."

Alice glances at her husband's boots and notes the particular shade of the leather. "I believe they are," she replies, knowing they're not quite dark enough to be Friday shoes yet, but are certainly not light enough to be considered a pair of Wednesday boots.

"You still haven't answered my inquiry, sir!" Margaret continues, ignoring the shoes and their fascinating weekly color shift entirely. "Why was Hamish in need of this... pain paste?"

Tarrant fidgets. "Ah, um, well..."

"Alice?" Margaret demands when Tarrant's yellow-green gaze flicks nervously in her direction.

Alice sighs. Oh, what an inconvenient time for Tarrant's mad genius to go on holiday! "I'm afraid I've given my word not to speak of the incident."

"Tarrant?" Margaret barks, irritated. Taking the slight pinching around her mouth as evidence, Alice knows her sister senses the battle is Lost.

"Me as well, madam. I was permitted to tell only Alice."

"Mother? Do _you_ know anything about this?"

"Thankfully, no," Helen replies blandly, her attention on coordinating a game of patty-cake with her barefoot grandson. "But if you're so concerned, dear, might I suggest addressing Hamish yourself on the matter?"

"Yes. Yes, thank you. I shall."

She does.

The next day, when Hamish arrives to collect Tarrant and take him to the club to resume their fencing (Tarrant's lip never fails to curl into a mocking, half-hearted snarl at the word) lessons, Margaret beats the lethargic Mr. Brown to the front door and, throwing it open, demands, "What foolishness were you engaged in last week that resulted in you being injured, Hamish?"

There's a beat of shocked silence which rolls lazily down the hall, bumping against the grandfather clock and making it chime (or perhaps that's only the half-hour being marked), then flopping into the library where Alice is curled up on the sofa with Tarrant, an open newspaper between them.

"I... Well, I... Whoever said I was injured, madam? As you can see, I'm in perfect health!"

"Yes, thanks to that miracle ointment my sister brought with her! Why were you in need of it?"

This time, the silence is contemplative. It picks itself up off the floor, leans over the threshold and cocks its head, as if studying Margaret Manchester with Great Interest.

"And... may_ I _ask," Hamish returns in a slow, speculative tone, "how it is you came to be aware of the existence of that wonder cure?" In the time it – no doubt – takes Margaret's expression to twitch with guilt, Hamish's Speculation turns into Upset: "Were _you_ in need of it?"

Apparently, her sister's struggle with Shame and Frustration is more than answer enough:

"Manchester!" Alice's eyes widen at the sound of... Dear Fates, had Hamish's voice just... _cracked?_

"What did he do?" he demands to know. And then: "How dare he lay a hand on you un-gently! Why, I'll run that gutless fiend through this time and never mind the bloody rules of engagement! I'll march down to that pier this instant and...! His boat's not sailed yet! Yes, I'll just... _Driver!_"

Alice can feel herself gaping as she glances up at Tarrant. He meets her astonished gaze with wide eyes and an equally startled expression.

"Hamish Ascot!" Margaret shouts back. "Have you been dueling my _husband?_"

Alice winces. Certainly, Mr. Brown, the cook, the chambermaid working upstairs, the neighbors, and the street vendors around the corner had heard that!

"Madam, I have!"

If Alice's jaw hadn't already unhinged, it certainly would have done so upon hearing that!

"_Whatever **for**?_"

There's a long pause and then a last offensive: "Lady Manchester, if you do not know, what good would be accomplished in telling you?"

"For one thing, I won't allow you to set foot in this house until you do!"

"Well! Then it appears we are at an impasse, madam. _Hightopp!_"

Alice glances over her shoulder at her husband, expecting him to give her an apologetic look before he removes himself from the sofa and steps out into the hall. At the very _least_ she expects him to answer! Say _something_ chiding and witty in a delightfully cheerful tone!

But Tarrant does none of those things.

Alice glimpses a smug grin on his face as he curls his arm tighter around her shoulders and pointedly turns back to the newspaper spread out over Alice's stomach.

"I don't think he heard you." Margaret's reply is composed of dulcet tones that dance down the hall rather... Dangerously. "Perhaps you ought to bellow a bit louder?"

Hamish blusters, "Oh! For the love of...!"

"Margaret Manchester?" Tarrant suggests, sotto voce.

Alice bites back a bark of laughter.

And perhaps it's the pressure of her contained humor that kicks the Idea loose, but _suddenly_, Alice thinks of Tarrant's "unwitting" confession the day before concerning Hamish's use of the Pain Paste and...

"You utterly, undeniably diabolically brilliant mad hatter!" Alice hisses. "You set all this in motion with that slip about Hamish needing the pain paste!"

"But of course," he replies. "I was rather surprised you didn't try to stop me. Are you feeling quite... Collected, Alice?"

"No, not hardly! I'm an absolute oblivious twit these days!" she huffs. Then feels the need to point out: "You do realize they could _kill_ each other on the front step, don't you?"

"Shush, my Alice. I sense an Ultimatum coming!"

It does: "So, let's have it, sir! Either fire when ready or disclose the extent of your utter foolishness!"

And Hamish Ascot – much-more-Muchier Hamish Ascot – answers that dare:

"Foolishness! Is it foolishness to attempt to assist a dear friend's husband with the tidying up of his priorities? With the securing of his finances? With the care and continuation of his family's future? Foolishness is it?"

"And just why would Lowell require that kind of assistance?"

Hamish counters more quietly, but not by much: "Why would his father send him off to America to open an office we all know to be fiction?"

This time, it takes Alice a moment to realize this new breed of Silence is in fact one arisen from Shock and dawning Shame. The moment stretches taut with tension.

"Perhaps... you'd better come in after all, Hamish," Margaret replies almost too quietly for Alice to hear.

The door closes. Their footsteps draw closer but Alice doesn't move away from Tarrant's embrace. Nor does he offer to let her go.

The library door slides open and Hamish gestures a shaken-looking Margaret to precede him. She does and takes a seat beside Alice. Alice reaches for her sister's limp hand and squeezes her fingers.

After nearly a minute, Margaret draws a shaking breath and dispenses with the most obvious theory:

"It can't be that Lowell has a bastard child. If so... the mother would have been sent away. Not Lowell." Margaret stares straight ahead for a moment more. And then she muses woodenly, "Did he have an affair with a married woman? Of higher standing?"

Alice honestly doesn't know and, reluctantly, admits her ignorance. "I've no idea, dear sister. But I don't believe that was the primary reason for him being sent away. In fact, would the woman's husband not be permitted to challenge him for the insult? I doubt even Lord Manchester could circumvent that."

Margaret nods, her brows drawing together. "Then I... I don't understand..." But she does – or, at least, she's beginning to! – for she looks up at Hamish who is hovering awkwardly in the middle of the room as if waiting for the firing squad to cock their hammers.

"You offered my husband a loan."

"Yes, madam."

"Why?"

Bluntly, Hamish answers, "He needed the money."

"Money his father couldn't give him?"

"Money his father refused to give him any longer."

"Any... longer?"

Hamish releases a long breath and crosses the room to kneel at Margaret's feet. In a move that is brazenly forward and yet so utterly appropriate for the moment, Hamish gathers Margaret's other hand in his own and explains, "According to the man I hired to... look into your family's welfare, Manchester was but weeks away from gaol. Debtor's prison. I'm so very sorry, Margaret."

Margaret stares at their hands. "Gaol?"

"I'm very much afraid so."

"But how could I not... _know?_"

Hamish hesitates.

Alice forces herself to say the hateful words that the man who loves her sister cannot bring himself to utter:

"Are you sure you didn't? Think about it, Margaret. When was the last time you entertained any of his friends? The Manchesters themselves? You know that Society forgives nearly everything except..."

"Except a lost fortune. Yes. I know." She closes her eyes. Takes a deep breath. Shudders. "I knew. You're right, Alice. I knew."

Again, Margaret draws another deep breath. When she opens her eyes, she fixes her clear stare upon Hamish who is still kneeling at her feet, his hand now trapped in her grasp. "You offered Lowell a loan?"

"I did."

"Why didn't he accept it?"

Hamish swallows. Noticeably. But, ever noble, ever honorable, he gives her the truth she seeks, despite what it will reveal of him: "I believe it was the terms of the contract, Lady Manchester." He clears his throat and continues. "Those being, were he unable to repay the loan by the first of the year, he was to disclose to you the extent of his personal bankruptcy and... if you desired it, consent to a divorce and also relinquish Winslow into your care unconditionally."

Margaret's breaths have become soft gasps at the utter... the undeniable... the unavoidable Implications of Hamish's intentions.

But he has not finished yet. "Your husband took exception. We dueled." He pauses a moment, gathering his thoughts for what must be said next. "I am sorry my attempts to... assist only exacerbated the situation. I had hoped he would turn around, you see. You deserve so much better than he has – thus far – been capable of. And, as your dear father could not confront his foolishness, I... took it upon myself to..."

Alice aches for him; Hamish has bared his soul and very nearly his heart, but...

Margaret says nothing to this.

Hamish swallows. His expression twists. He pulls his hand from Margaret's abruptly and stands. His tone is hard with self-reproach and mortification, "I fought Manchester's foolishness with my own, it seems. I do not ask you to forgive me, but I offer my sincerest apologies. Whatever they are worth at this point."

He turns toward Tarrant. "Hightopp," he says brusquely, ignoring Margaret's unwavering, blank stare. "Are we going to the club today or not?"

Alice sends a Nudge along the heart line. Margaret needs her, needs her sister, needs to speak of things a woman can only tell another woman. And Hamish needs his half-mad friend. "Go," she urges him.

"Yes, we are!" he declares, gently withdrawing from behind Alice and settling her against the cushions of the sofa. He presses a swift kiss to her hair before standing. His fingertips linger on her shoulder and she feels his Reassurance engulf her.

Yes, they had hoped Margaret would be happy to learn of Hamish's regard... They had simply assumed it would not happen on the same day she learned of her husband's utter lack of sense, of responsibility, of... worth.

Hamish waits on the threshold for Tarrant to join him, but before he can make his escape, Margaret poses yet another question the younger Ascot is somehow compelled to answer.

"Hamish? The duel... who won?"

"Neither. It was a draw, madam."

Alice twitches at the over simplification, at the credit Hamish is giving Lowell despite the bastard's utter inability to deserve it.

Margaret looks up at him, pins him there in the doorway with her stare. "No, it wasn't."

"I..."

"Lowell fought for the sake of his own selfish pride," she explains. "The same cannot be said for you."

Hamish has no answer to this. No verbal response at any rate. He merely nods his head, bows to Margaret, pivots smartly on his heel and leads Tarrant from the room. And when Alice wraps an arm around her sister's shoulders, her hand still grasped in Alice's gloved left, Margaret leans against her sister and – finally – cries. Her tears are silent.

Alice's heart is breaking for her: her sister's (and their father's) dream of Lowell is no more. The extent of his utter selfishness tears the belly out of every promise that man had ever made her sister.

Of course there are tears.

Of course Hamish's veiled declaration is met with misery.

But then Alice remembers something Very Important:

She remembers traveling through the looking glass with Mirana's help. She remembers seeing her mother again in the guise of a not-dream. She remembers soothing her and speaking of fond, found friends and someone... someone who loves her...

No, the moment Alice had realized Tarrant's love for her had not been a joyous moment, either. It had been filled with pain, with the tearing, wrenching, wretchedness of making a Choice. While one dream had died, another had been born. But that, Alice realizes, is more often than not the way of things.

Through the pain, Alice had Seen clearly. She'd found herself facing a choice between a life of stagnation and a life of promise. It had taken less than an instant for her to choose.

_"Lowell had fought for the sake of his own selfish pride... The same cannot be said for you."_

Margaret has Seen her choices: staying loyal to a man who has failed her or opening her life to a man who loves her, enough to Sacrifice for her.

Alice knows her sister understands that choice. And when the pain has lessened – when the tide is out and the sorrow at sea – Margaret will make it.

It will be no less difficult than Alice's had been.

But it will be _Margaret's_ and **that** is considerably more than her sister had ever expected to have again. And Alice senses _that_ is why her sister weeps... not from a lack of hope...

... but from a sudden influx of too Much of it.

* * *

Notes:

1. I'm told that being a bit scatterbrained can be a feature of some women's pregnancies. It certainly is part of Alice's. So if you think she's a bit out of character, that's the reason. Poor Alice. She's a few sugar cubes shy of a tea service at the beginning of this chapter.

* * *

[End of Chapter 19: Scene 1 of 3]


	120. Book 3, The Next Hightopp, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Nineteen: The Next Hightopp  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

Alice is falling asleep against his shoulder... again.

Tarrant Feels it as her consciousness fades, as her emotions diffuse and unfocus, as her weight settles against him completely, as the arm which she'd curled around his waist loosens until it lies slack against the back of the bench.

The sounds that whisper through the house – Margaret playing with Winslow and Helen commenting on the news downstairs, Anne dusting the hall, Mrs. Cray cleaning out the stove – and the sounds that eke through the walls and windows from the street – the traffic of feet and horses and brash drivers – all conspire with the knocking of the loom to send Alice to Sleep.

In fact, there is only one sound that is absent in this murmured symphony, Tarrant thinks: Hamish Ascot's pompous declarations and blustery back-peddling (which he does – no, no, _had done_ – quite a bit of in Margaret Manchester's presence!) and harrumphs of concession. Yes, there is a Hamish-shaped hole in this soft noise.

"Don't worry," Alice had assured him. "I know my sister. She just needs time to... find her Muchness."

Yes, yes, of course! Why, he can imagine his sister-in-law is not enthusiastic about replacing a defective husband as if he were a pair of outmoded boots! These things take Time, he knows. And Margaret's parting comment to Hamish so long ago... Yes, she's aware of his motivations. No, she does not regard him as another Lowell. And, most importantly of all – and, as Tarrant is constantly reminding Hamish! – it is what Margaret had _not _said that must be paid special attention:

She had _not _said "No."

She had _not _said "Never."

She had _not_ even said "Farewell."

"Perhaps I shall intrude upon your family for Christmas supper," Hamish had mused. "Helen is constantly inviting me."

"Please do!" Tarrant had replied, overjoyed despite not knowing what this "Christmas" is everyone had taken to speaking of!

Alice had been pleased when he'd reported this. "You see? They'll come around."

"Yes, yes, but with all the circling they're doing, it makes one very frustrated and somewhat sick to one's stomach from dizziness!"

"If you feel that way from just watching, imagine how Margaret and Hamish feel. Let them make their circles, Raven. There's a reason it's called a merry-go-round."

He'd considered that for a moment and then, smiling, he'd concluded, "For the reward which is acquired not _despite _but _because of _the circuitous route taken, my Alice?"

"Precisely."

"Then I ought not interrupt the journey."

Alice had smiled and wrapped her arm around his waist, had leaned into his shoulder, had closed her eyes and sighed. "Yes. Let them have their mad Caucus Race. It won't end until it's over and not a moment before."

They'd had that conversation a month ago, on an afternoon much like this one. Alice had taken to joining him here, as he'd worked her great-grandmother's loom, as he'd woven hand's width after hand's width of pure white wool. Creating his wife's tartan had been good practice, he notes, for this one – their littlin's – is turning out much better!

Now, after two months of practice, he works the machine with skill. Skill his Alice appreciates as the regular, rhythmic movements predictably soothe her into sleep. And he knows she Needs her rest now that she's finally being permitted to have some. Even after spending all day in bed yesterday, Alice still has not fully recovered her strength. But no, of course she hasn't! For five continuous, unrelenting days, their littin' had very nearly Futterwhackened poor Alice breathless! Why, Margaret and Helen had hardly known what to make of it.

"I told you the Hightopps are... different from us," Alice had gasped when Margaret had sputtered and squawked about more impossible things! "And Tarrant's known throughout Witzend for doing the very best Futterwhacken. I can hardly expect less from his son or daughter, now can I?"

The very thought of one day teaching a little lass or a little lad how to Futterwhacken had very nearly set his head spinning. Luckily, he'd merely felt his hands spin on his wrists. Once. But Helen and Margaret had seen it, had gasped, and had nominated themselves for preparing an Immediate tea service.

"They'll be fine," Alice had assured him once the room had emptied.

"Yes, yes!" he'd agreed, still frowning with Worry. "But will they be fine in time for the arrival of our littlin'? And our queen?"

"I'll make sure of it," she'd promised and then gasped as yet another performance had pushed the air from her lungs.

"That—was—quite—Vigorous!" she'd wheezed once it was over and, despite his Concern, Tarrant had giggled.

"Perhaps it runs in the family?" he'd suggested.

_Family...!_

Tarrant makes a concentrated effort _not _to pause in his work and disturb Alice's slumber. He knows the patterns of Alice's sleep; if he moves her now, she'll awaken and he must avoid that at all costs. No, no, he must wait until her breaths hitch and her eyes move beneath the delicate lids. Only then will it be safe to return her to their bed down the hall. He continues weaving, rhyming her into dreams with the knocking of the loom. She needs the rest. Just as their littlin' does.

Five days of fierce Futterwhacken.

Followed by three days of slumber and then...

And then Alice will be able to share their littlin' with him. And then he will be able to hold that tiny body in his arms. And then...

_D'nae stop yer weavin', lad! Yer lass needs th'rest!_

He knows.

_Ye've o'ly one more day teh go, lad!_

He knows that as well.

_Yer Alice will be jus'fine!_

He's not so sure about that, but he Hopes...!

Tarrant grits his teeth, squeezes his eyes shut and Banishes the Bad Thoughts to the Back of his mind. It's a cluttered place, truth be told, and rather dim and shadowy as he's yet to get around to lighting it. And due to the darkness it's rather difficult to tidy up so he expects those Bad Thoughts will be stumbling around for quite some time before they manage to find their way back to him. And by then...

_Aye, by then yer littl'lad 'r lass will b' born._

And Alice will be fine.

Yes, everything will be Fine.

"Fine," he murmurs, opening his eyes and moving his whole-and-healthy fingertips over the weave. Then he giggles. _Fine, indeed!_ "Yes, yes, a fine weave, indeed!" he rhymes, imagining Alice can hear it in her sleep and have pleasant dreams filled with his nonsense and her Alice-laughter.

A fine weave, indeed!

And it truly is! It's the best weave he's ever managed and he'd long passed the required length of fabric weeks ago, but he'd kept on weaving. He'd needed the activity, the distraction, and the closeness of his wife as she'd sat with him and sung songs with him and sometimes rubbed his shoulders.

He gently folds the finished cloth out of the way and muses at what they've made together, he and his Alice. This blank canvas will become bright with color, just as their littlin's life will be.

Never before has Tarrant truly cared for the color White – a shy color, too bashful to commit to one hue or another, no Muchness at all! – but now...! _Now...!_

Now it is the most perfect color in the entire universe.

It is the color of Hope, of Possibilities, of the Future.

Now Tarrant Hightopp understands why Mirana has always insisted upon surrounding herself with it.

And he's never been happier knowing that the White Queen herself will be attending the birth of the next Hightopp.

* * *

[End of Chapter 19: Scene 2 of 3]


	121. Book 3, The Next Hightopp, 3 of 3

_**This chapter contains mature themes: childbirth (non-explicit).**_

* * *

_**Chapter Nineteen: The Next Hightopp  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

"Your Majesty, Avenfaire Palace has been rebuilt, down to the last tile in the throne room."

Mirana looks up from the reconstruction report at this happy statement. Goodness knows how many pages she would have had to wade through to discover that!

"Thank you, Fenruffle. That is most welcome news!"

She accepts the latest scroll from her agents in Shuchland and sets it apart from the rest of the pile for last. Knowing that there is a reward for suffering through this seemingly unending mountain of haphazardly composed and nearly-illegible-at-times correspondence, Mirana takes a deep breath and prepares to reapply herself to the reports.

Fenruffle begins to bow himself from the room, but then pauses and, frowning more fiercely than usual, glances toward her vanity – piled with all sorts of texts and previously read scrolls and whatnot – and comments, "I beg your pardon, Your Majesty, but it seems as if your correspondence has... grown since I was last here this morning."

"Has it?" she muses, joining Fenruffle in frowning. She rises from her chair and drifts toward him. "How odd..."

Coming to stand next to him, she admits that the collection _does _look oddly more... _populated _than it had just this morning.

"Very strange..."

And then, as they study the disorganized jumble, the parchments shift all on their own and the pile seems to... enlarge. Mirana shares a wary glance with Fenruffle and then, with hesitance, begins relocating the top rolls of parchment. Fenruffle obediently holds out his arms and acts as a paper receptacle. The scrolls are rustling against his chest and tucked under his beak before Mirana realizes the source of the... problem, as it were. A collection of much smaller scrolls litters the tabletop and each is still unread, tied with a ribbon.

She reaches for one and unrolls it.

Reads:

_Mirana, all's well here. The birthing pains are coming every fifteen minutes or so. Love, Alice_

For a moment, Mirana just stares at the odd message. And then, whirling, she consults the calendar, the clock, and calculates the time since Tarrant's last letter:

_Your Majesty, Our littin' commenced with the Five Days of Futterwhacken today. I expect Alice will be needing your assistance on the eighth day. I know she won't ask you again, but I am. Please come. Your ever-faithful hatter, Tarrant Hightopp_

Mirana turns back to the vanity and digs down until she feels her fingers pass through the insubstantial surface of the small, silver looking glass resting face-up on the vanity's tabletop.

"Oh, _bother__**ation!**_" she nearly shouts, causing Fenruffle to flinch and the scrolls in his arms to _crackle-crumple-crunch!_

"Put those down," she says shortly. "And fetch the king, please. Now." Mirana doesn't look up as the gryphon does as she commands. He dumps the scrolls on the nearest armchair – those arms might as well be useful for _something!_ – and rushes for the door. Mirana tears the ribbon from the next scroll.

_Mirana, Still fine. I haven't told Tarrant yet, but I think he already knows. No change in the pains. Love, Alice_

And another:

_Dear Mirana, I believe my labor has begun. If you could make time to visit later, I'd appreciate it. I'll send a note every hour to let you know how we're progressing. Love, Alice_

And another:

_Mirana, I was only able to evade Tarrant's questions for so long and then I had to tell him. Ten minute breaks. Nothing urgent. Love, Alice_

The next:

_Mirana, I can see now I should have INSISTED Tarrant go to the club with Hamish today. Botheration. My water broke and he nearly suffered an apoplexy. Five minutes or so apart now. Still not urgent. Pain is manageable. Love, Alice_

And then:

_Mirana, Please bring a Calming Draught. It's for Tarrant. We __all__ need it. The duration of the breaks hasn't changed but the pain is intensifying now! We've called the doctor, blast it all. Well, maybe he'll have something to calm Tarrant._

And the apparently most recent:

_Mirana! Where __are__ you? Are you getting these? If you're looking for that Calming Draught, ask Thackery! And if you don't find it in the next ten minutes, I insist you simply shove Tarrant through the mirror when you arrive. Less than five minutes!_

"Mirana?"

The White Queen turns as her husband enters the room, his face drawn with concern. "Dale," she begins, opening the largest drawer in the vanity desk and pulling out a small satchel. "I'm afraid my Champion needs me. I must go. If you could...?"

Dale leans forward and presses a whiskery kiss to her forehead. "Of course, Mi-sh'rya. I'll just read through these–" He nods to the pile of correspondence on her desk. "– while I hold the looking glass open, shall I?"

She smiles and places a kiss on his lion-lips. "I love you."

He chuckles. "And a good thing, too! I wouldn't offer to read through field reports for just anyone, you know."

"I know."

And with a smile, a wave of her hand and a flutter of fingertips, she steps through the free-standing mirror and into...

... into a vacant bedroom. She takes a moment to survey the slightly dusty shelves filled with dolls and books and other little-girl odds and ends. And then she hears:

"_Brangergain i'tall_, Tarrant! If I want to bloody pace the bloody room I bloody will! For the _last time, _I'm bloody _fine!_"

_Ah-hah!_ Mirana thinks and moves toward the door.

There's a slight rumble of masculine fear bundled in a rhythm that sounds Outlandish to Mirana's ears.

"I don't _need _to see the _bloody doctor!_" she nearly shouts back. "I need to see _Mirana! Ow!_"

"Alice, dear, I still don't see how someone from this country you've come from could possibly—"

Locating the correct door, which stands slightly ajar, Mirana pushes it open with a hesitant poke and takes in the scene: Alice is crouching over the back of a low chair with the slats in her white-knuckled grasp, an older woman Mirana assumes must be Alice's mother is rubbing circles against Alice's lower back, yet another woman who could only be Alice's sister is frowning at Tarrant who is hovering over his wife... obsessively.

Mirana clears her throat and announces herself, "Ah, excuse me, everyone! I'm Mirana of Mamoreal. So wonderful to meet you all! And, Alice! I'm so sorry I'm late! It seems your bad habits have migrated to me today! Now, Tarrant, will you please take my bag? Thank you. And open it, yes. I'll need those things organized _thoroughly_ on a suitably large table, if you don't mind."

Alice's sister gapes at the queen, to which she smiles in response then politely ignores.

Alice's mother has stopped rubbing her daughter's back and is looking equally flunderwhapped.

Alice looks up, still riding the pain of the contraction and manages a teeth-gritting grin. "Mirana." Her brown eyes, flecked with yellow aggression, scan the queen. "No time to change?"

"I'm afraid not," the queen answers, explaining away her crown and elaborate gown. "But it seems fitting this way. This is quite the occasion, Alice. I ought to be properly dressed for it. Now, what do we have, dear?"

Mirana presses her hands to Alice's belly, considers the shape and direction and weight of the baby. "Ah, excellent!" She then leans over and checks Alice's bare feet. "Good, good!" Smiling, she drifts in front of Alice and requests, "Open up! Say 'Ah!'"

As Alice does so, her mother finds her voice. "What in the world is _that _supposed to accomplish?"

Mirana merely grins and announces, "It won't be long now, Alice."

Turning, she notices that Tarrant is watching their exchange with peridot-green eyes, his very un-groomed brows knit together in abstract Worry. "The bricks, if you would, Tarrant? Right here is fine," she indicates with an airy gesture. The room is clearly a guestroom that had been stripped of all non-essentials. Clearly someone had Prepared things. Most likely Tarrant as Alice has been rather... preoccupied for the last eight days or so.

He sets the heavy stones down on the floor, adjusting them at the queen's direction. "Wha'telse can I do?" he burrs, his gaze never leaving his wife, who attempts a brave smile for him despite her shaking limbs and shuddering shoulders.

"Let's ask Alice," Mirana replies and gently removes her Champion's claw-like grip from the chair. "Alice, dear, who would you prefer at your back?"

"Tarrant," she answers without a moment's hesitation. Mirana nods and accepts Alice's request that she take the midwife's position. "But your dress..."

"Will not object in the slightest. Nor will I," Mirana consoles her, patting her cheeks. "Now, Tarrant, where is the blanket? Ah, good!"

As Mirana removes her jewelry and washes up in the steaming water, Tarrant approaches his wife. He stands behind her and takes each of her hands in his. He presses a kiss to her temple. "Writing desk, my raven," he whispers.

Alice takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and nods. "We can do this," she assures him, assures herself.

Mirana notes the tears in his eyes at Alice's utter and undiminished bravery. His tears echo her own. She completes her preparations with a layer of slick lotion on her arms. Mirana kneels down and gently inserts a hand beneath Alice's shrift.

Seeing this, Alice's sister murmurs numbly, "I suppose I'd better bring the doctor upstairs."

"Mirana will take care of the baby," Alice reminds her. Her voice tightens as another contraction builds. "Make sure he's clear on _that!_"

"Yes, of course," Margaret says, her tone automatic, before ducking out of the room and the strange sight the three of them must make.

"What can I do?" Mrs. Kingsleigh asks, clearly irritated at the direction things are taking but valiantly keeping her priorities straight. Even in mid-labor, Alice's will and determination are forces to be reckoned with.

"Be here for Alice," Mirana replies, investigating her Champion's progress gently. "Nearly there, Alice."

_Dear Fates, please let my midwifery skills be up to this task!_

Alice nods, her breaths puffing out like the steam locomotive that had once served Underland... before Iracebeth had ordered it destroyed rather than permit it to be used to transport traitors to her crown beyond her reach before their scheduled beheading.

Mirana barely hears the blustery protests of an older gentleman when he accompanies Alice's sister into the room. She ignores everything except for her Champion, who is also Underland's Champion, who is and has always been Tarrant Hightopp's Champion.

The queen looks up and into Tarrant's face. His gaze is fiercely green and focused on his wife's expression. She can only imagine what he Sends her through the heart line, can only imagine what he Feels from Alice, but he stands tall, holds steady as she grips him to keep herself anchored.

"Beautrific, my Alice," he murmurs softly. "'Twon'b'much longer nauw. I've gau'ye, luv. Ye're 'ere in m'arms an' ye'll no'be lettin' me go..."

As the contraction eases, Mirana checks the baby's position then urges, "Onto the bricks now, Alice. It's time, dear."

Tarrant helps her up and Mirana ignores the doctor's protests – "This is barbaric, madam! You can't expect a safe delivery in this manner! Lady Hightopp ought to be abed, or at least seated properly in a birthing chair!" – and arranges the length of white fabric Tarrant had provided as well as an empty basin.

And then Time enters the room and begins to play.

As Alice kneels, leans back against her husband, bears down and hisses through gritted teeth, Time seems to slow and yet Mirana finds herself with barely enough opportunity to think, to urge and encourage Alice, to direct Tarrant to shift his weight or lift Alice's arms or...

Time wraps up fifteen minutes of activity and packages it all into a single instant. Or so it seems to Mirana. And then a small body is sliding into her arms and onto the length of white wool. Mirana shifts the baby into one arm and tends to the cord.

"Congratulations, Alice, Tarrant," Mirana whispers as she wipes the baby clean with the wool... which mysteriously begins to color in the most interesting ways where the child's skin touches it.

"We've created a Tamial, my Alice," Tarrant whispers into her hair.

Alice sobs once, smiles.

Mirana pushes the basin in place with her opposite hand. "You're almost finished, my Champion. You know what comes next."

Reluctantly, Alice draws another breath, closes her eyes, and waits for the final contraction to come. And when it does, the last essence of her pregnancy is dispelled.

"Excellent work, Alice!" Mirana praises her, doing her best to clean up Alice with a warm cloth. "Now, I believe you're ready to lay down for a bit?"

Mirana follows them to the bed and urges Tarrant to sit beside his wife. She then lays their son in the cradle of Alice's tired arms. Tarrant reaches across her to hold them steady and they both study their son's surprised and rather disgruntled expression. He whimpers a bit, coughs, but doesn't cry.

The doctor's presence goes unnoticed by the two of them as he steps up to the bed and examines his patient. When he seems satisfied that Alice has delivered safely, he looks up and across the bed at Mirana.

"Is that how it's done where you come from, madam?"

"It is," she replies with a serene smile.

He sniffs. "A miracle she didn't hemorrhage."

Mirana says nothing. Let this man think what he will. Mirana had not come through the looking glass to educate him. The man insists on lingering on the premises just to be sure Alice doesn't encounter any complications. He excuses himself to finish his interrupted cup of tea downstairs.

Alice's sister escorts him away.

Mrs. Kingsleigh seats herself beside the bed where she can clearly see her newest grandson. Mirana finds herself enraptured as well by the baby's flashing irises and the curling wisps of strawberry-blond hair atop his head. He flails a bit and makes a grumpy mewling sound.

Yes, Mirana imagines it had been _much _easier to Futterwhacken _before _this entire birthing business began. Poor disappointed lad...

She finds herself mesmerized by the child's tartan. It remains as fluffy and soft and clean as it had before the birth and yet the _colors...!_ Mirana gapes as she watches the Hightopp colors weave themselves into the threads slowly, steadily, relentlessly. Why, if the newborn infant spends the night lying on that fabric, his Hightopp-ness will succeed in staining the entire bolt into Hightopp tartan!

She burns to ask Tarrant about this, the mechanics of it! Why doesn't she have a tome dedicated to this phenomenon in her alchemy library?

But now is not the time. There will be time later for intellectual pursuits.

For now, Mirana turns her attention to where is _should _be: to the child nuzzling Alice's breast.

"Alice," Mirana murmurs, feeling her heart throb: Alice has yet again emerged the victor, a Champion. For really, that _is _what motherhood is, is it not? She informs her dearest friend, "He's absolutely perfect. You didn't need me at all!"

"We did," Alice counters weakly, her eyelids drooping with exhaustion. "All three of us did."

"Tamial," Tarrant murmurs, his fingertips gently investigating his son's skin, "would not have been possible without your assistance, Your Majesty." His expression softens until she fears he might weep great, Hightopp tears. "Thank ye fer always keeping th' mirror open teh my Alice. Thank ye fer watchin' o'er her aboard her ship. Thank ye fer... e'erything."

Mirana finds herself meeting his dark blue – but perfectly clear and dry! – eyes. "Hence the name?" she asks tearfully.

"Aye. Fer the thrice o' us."

"Is it all right?" Alice asks and Mirana has to take a moment to persuade her tears to retreat.

"Yes, of course! I'm _honored_, Tarrant, Alice. I'm honored to be a part of your family."

"Auntie Mirana," Alice jokes tiredly and Tarrant gently collects their son from her shaking arms. Alice leans against her husband's shoulder and closes her eyes.

That's Mirana's cue. "Tarrant," she whispers, "I'm leaving some things for Alice to take if she'd like. In small doses, of course. I've left instructions on their use."

He nods, completely transfixed by the presence in his arms.

Smiling, Mirana stands and begins to clean up. As promised, she leaves a fresh pot of Pain Paste and a few other things Alice might have a need for in the coming days. The birthing stones are placed back into the impossibly small bag along with the potions and other remedies she'd prepared, just in case.

Collecting her valise, the queen stands and steps toward the door.

"You're leaving so soon?" Mrs. Kingsleigh asks.

Mirana inclines her head, amused that the woman's gruff tone no doubt comes from pique at not having any control over the situation rather than any intentional rudeness on the queen's part. "I'm afraid there's much to be done at home and I must return."

It's an excuse. Mirana knows she _could _stay... but what would she do? Alice and Tarrant are in no condition to receive visitors today of all days! What other options remain? Share an Uncomfortable Tea with Alice's family? No. No, she can be of more use in Mamoreal. She will visit with Alice and Tarrant and their son another, less stressful day...

"But... you've only just arrived!"

Yes, Alice's mother has _questions _and _concerns._ Well, perhaps Mirana _ought_ to address those before she goes...

"Mrs. Kingsleigh," Mirana replies gently, "would you be so kind as to see me out?"

And, faced with such a reasonable request, Alice's mother cannot refuse. "Yes, of course."

But when the woman turns toward the staircase that descends obediently – how oddly silent everything is Up Here! – toward the first floor, Mirana clears her throat. "I'm afraid that is not the way I came, madam." And then she drifts toward Alice's old bedroom. Mrs. Kingsleigh, frowns and follows her.

"How precisely _did _you arrive, madam," the woman inquires, "if you did not enter through the front door? And... how did you manage to arrive in such a timely fashion?"

"Ah, yes! All will be answered," Mirana assures her. "But first, I must apologize for arriving so late into... things. I had hoped... Ah, well, as I mentioned, there's much to be done at home and I'm afraid I rather lost track of the day! Luckily, my chief of staff noticed that the pile of parchments on my bureau had mysteriously grown, otherwise I fear I would have disappointed dear Alice and broken my promise." Mirana shudders at the thought. "That would have been unforgivable!"

Mrs. Kingsleigh is silent for a long moment.

Mirana sets her bag down and gestures for the woman to join her. Mirana moves toward the bed and takes a seat on the end of it. She waits for Mrs. Kingsleigh to comply. "Now, before I return to my country, I'm afraid I'll have to ask you a riddle, Mrs. Kingsleigh."

The woman sighs. "Well, get on with it. I'm used to them by now."

Mirana arcs her brows in silent surprise. "Alice has not revealed the details of my land to you?"

"No. Just one riddle or hint after another!"

"I apologize for asking you to endure yet another one. Please take comfort in the fact that it will be the last."

Alice's mother _does _appear much happier upon hearing that. "Let's have it then. I'd like to get back to my daughter."

"As you should! Now... ah, yes! Here we are: I'm contemplating things that begin with the letter 'M'..."

Mrs. Kingsleigh huffs. "I've heard this one before."

"And what answers have you thought of, madam?"

"Magic, miracles, madness, muchness... whatever that is, marvelous, magnificence, and mirrors, of all things!"

"Ah, but that is one of the most important ones," Mirana reassures her. "For it is the way home for me, for Tarrant, and for Alice and their son."

Mrs. Kingsleigh doesn't understand. But she will.

"Now, before I go, I ask you to please consider one more thing: although the path to and from my land seems easy. Simple, even, please consider the possibility that the journey itself is very difficult and it had taken quite a lot of strength on Alice's part to return to you. Just as it will take a lot of strength for her to leave you again. Please keep that in mind and support her decision. Alice deserves every happiness she is capable of."

Mirana holds out her hand and shakes Mrs. Kingsleigh's in a perfectly proper lady-like grip. "It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, madam. I hope we'll meet again soon and, perhaps, at that time, become friends."

Then, with a brief curtsey to her unwilling hostess, Mirana swoops down gracefully and collects her satchel and then sweeps toward the mirror. Stopping just a few inches in front of its silvery surface, the queen turns and glances over her shoulder. With a smile, she bids Alice's mother:

"Fairfarren, Mrs. Kingsleigh."

And then she squares her shoulders and steps into the looking glass...

... and emerges in her office to a rather _boisterous_ crowd.

"What happened?"

"How's Alice?"

"Is it a boy?"

"Is it a girl?"

"Is i'ta spoon?"

Mirana looks over the assembled throng: Mally, Thackery, Tweedledee and Tweedledum, Bayard and his entire family – both sets of pups! She also sees Leif, her own daughters – Alicibeth and Tarranya, Chessur, a violently twitching Nivens, and even a grudging Fenruffle! On the balcony, a motion draws her gaze and she spies Maevyn balanced on the railing. From the orchard below, she thinks she hears the impatient barking bellow of the Bandersnatch!

"My queen!" Dale says, snapping her to attention. "Please, we can see _something_ has happened." His gaze travels over her dress, forever ruined. "But we don't know if it's good or bad!"

Mirana smiles. "Alice is fine!" she announces.

"An' th'bairn?" Thackery hiccups, clutching a pepper mill.

"Is a Hightopp! Tamial Hightopp," she informs them.

"It's a Tamial!" Mally crows.

Bayto frowns. "So that would mean it's a... boy?"

"Who bloody cares?" the dormouse enthuses. "This calls for a drink! Chess, it's your turn to make the tea!"

"No cat hair this time," Bayard demands.

"The cat hair is what makes it Special," Chessur assures him with a typically unnerving grin. "Only a dog would ask for Dandy Tea without the dander!"

Before Mirana can be swept from her office to an impromptu tea party, she glances at the looking glass and back into Alice's childhood bedroom. Helen Kingsleigh is still sitting on the bed, one hand flat over her chest and the other clutching the quilt. Mirana watches as the door opens and Alice's sister leans over the threshold. Speaks. Mrs. Kingsleigh regards the looking glass for a moment more then, with an abrupt shake of her head, replies. Stands. Leaves the room.

"Was it a good idea to leave Alice to explain that?" Dale murmurs in speculation.

Mirana smiles. "Most definitely, my king. A Champion _always _rises to the challenge placed before her."

"And as always, I shall trust your judgment on all matters concerning your Champion."

"What a wise monarch you are!"

He chuckles. "A wise monarch who has read himself into a thirst. Come down for tea. The field reports will wait for an hour."

Indeed, they will.

And, indeed they do.

* * *

Notes:

1. I've purposefully left out the _detailed_ Details of the birth. There's loads on the Internet about the process of childbirth. If you're that curious, go on and Google it. For the purposes of this story, I decided the gory details weren't necessary for expressing the miracle Alice and Tarrant experience... as a couple with the invaluable help of their benefactress, the queen. No two births are exactly the same, but I apologize if Alice's seems disingenuous in some way and I point to the Artistic License in my defense. (^_^) - *`[ARTIST'S LICENSE]`* Isn't it all pretty 'n' sparkly 'n' the like?

2. There is a bit of fanart of the Hightopps available on my homepage. Follow the link on the left-side navigation bar: "aiw fanart by manniness". It's not worksafe as there's nudity. It's just a sketch. Nothing amazing. But the heart lines are illustrated (finally) so I guess that's something...

* * *

[End of Chapter 19: Scene 2 of 3]


	122. Book 3, Christmas and Magic, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Twenty: Christmas and Magic  
**_

[Scene 1 and 2 of 3]

Alice has known many names in her lifetime:

Alice Kingsleigh, daughter of Charles and Helen Kingsleigh.

Champion Alice, champion of the White Queen – Mirana of Mamoreal.

Alice Lasling, mercenary-trained champion of Prince Jaspien.

Alice Hightopp, Tarrant Hightopp's wife.

Lady Hightopp of Iplam.

And now...

Alice regards her son, who has worked up quite the appetite from trying and failing to (most likely) Futterwhacken for nearly an hour, and considers her newest name: mother.

She is Tamial Hightopp's mother.

"I ken tha' look."

Alice smiles but doesn't take her eyes off of their little Tam at the sound of her husband's voice. "Do you? Already?" For, certainly, it's a new one. _She's _certainly never felt this particular expression from inside her own skin before!

"Aye."

"What does it tell you?"

"How ver'much I luv ye, Alice."

She looks up at that, at the sight of Tarrant leaning over her armchair, his hair still damp from his bath and his nightshirt is peeking out from between the lapels of the housecoat her father had once worn in winter. For a moment, she's at a loss for words – she's as wordless as a newly hatched jabberwocky! – but then they find her, as they always do... eventually.

"You take my breath away," she whispers.

His eyes deepen in color, past that indigo of unconditional and absolute adoration to a shade she hasn't seen much of recently – not since that morning before the duel, actually: violet.

"Th' gentlemanly thin'teh do in tha'case would be teh giv'it back, wouldnae it?" he muses on an equally soft whisper of his own. And then he leans down and brushes his lips against hers.

"But are you a gentleman?" Alice murmurs when he pulls back after that too-brief and shallow contact. She leans forward, following his mouth. The arm not wrapped around Tam finds another use: her hand tangles in the worn, soft fabric of the housecoat lapels.

Tarrant's eyebrows twitch: yes, he'll play her game. "I've been told 'twould be teh m'benefit teh b'come one."

"But your wife would suffer horribly..."

"Och, nauw we cannae ha'tha'..." And with those words, he closes the distance between their mouths, thrusts his hand into her hair and _possesses_ her. She groans, marvels, and shoves away the twinge of embarrassment and shame – here she is, suckling their son at her breast and yet she wants-desires-needs-longs-aches for her husband's touch!

And because she needs More, of course, he pulls away. "No, Alice," he lisps, covering her hand with his. "It's too soon. The queen specifically said..."

"But I'm _fine!_" Dear Fates, had that been a _whine?_

It must have been, because Tarrant chuckles softly and a smile of pure Masculine Delight stretches his lips. "You are considerably _more _than fine," he agrees. "However, now is not the time." He cocks his head to the side and observes with delight, "Rhyme."

She knows. Her sigh of impatience and regret signals her agreement. Yes, she may be healed, thanks to Mirana's skills in alchemy. Yes, she _wants _him. But, perhaps, it's best if they don't... _here._

_This time next week, you'll be home._

In Mamoreal.

Alice tells herself she can wait.

Herself disagrees.

But, Alice, being the more rational and determined of the two, releases his housecoat. Her father's housecoat. A father's housecoat. Tarrant _is _a father now, isn't he? It wouldn't be Right for him to wear the housecoat of a bachelor now would it?

"The robe suits you," she tells him. "From one father to another. Perhaps you make it feel at home again."

"Now _that,_ my Alice, is a compliment deserving of some Attention."

Alice tries to hide her smile of anticipation but feels it peeping out at him regardless. "What sort of attention, Raven?"

Again he leans down, but this time her lips encounter only his damp hair as he angles his face toward her neck. She obligingly tilts her head to the side and shivers when his lips – and then his teeth! – caress her skin.

"The sort," he rumbles, "that you will enjoy Quite a Lot... once you've taken your turn in the bath."

"Am I need of a bath?" she teases.

"You are, as always, utterly Alice-y," he assures her, inhaling deeply. "But 'tis m'job teh take care o' ye..."

And she had better let him do it, she knows. Surprisingly, it's gotten considerably less difficult for her to remember to allow him to. It doesn't hurt that her reward for doing so is nothing less than his undiluted happiness.

"All right. Would you see to the fire, then? Tam's nearly ready for bed."

"Tam?" Tarrant asks, moving toward the hearth and knocking away the ashes before adding more coal.

"Tamial. Tam," she explains and then dares to add, "Tam o'shanter..."

Her husband's shoulders stiffen and he turns toward her just in time for her to see the Light of Inspiration enter his eyes. "Tam o'shanter...?"

Their son stirs, satiated and sleepy for now. Alice lifts him up to the square of linen draped over her shoulder and pats his back. "A hatter's son _must _have a hat, Raven."

"Indeed he must!" Tarrant declares and reaches for Tam after they hear his soft burp. With experience gained from minding the queen's children one Wednesday morning after another for years (and then with that experience refined over the course of the previous month since Tam's birth), Tarrant nestles their son into his arms. Tamial opens his eyes a bit, works his little lips and fists his little hands, waving his too-soft arms aimlessly.

"Ah, no more Futterwhacken t'nigh', Tam," Alice hears Tarrant tell him as he moves toward the bed. "Nauw 'tis time fer th' Bedtime Bandersnatch teh carry ye off teh yer dreams. 'Ere he comes! Gal~umph! Gal~umph! Gal~umph!"

Alice swallows a giggle as each narrated stride of the fictitious beast is matched with a hypnotic sway of Tarrant's upper body. Just watching him lull their son to sleep is making her tired!

She leaves the room with one last glance at Tarrant, sitting up in bed now and humming a tune that brings the Maigh Festival to mind. His arms still rock a bit, but very slowly and gently now. Surely, Tam has closed his tiny little eyelids and is falling asleep...

And if Alice wants to take advantage of the Attention Tarrant had promised her in exchange for the compliment she'd Paid him, she'd better stop dawdling!

When Alice emerges on a cloud of steam, hair washed but still damp, fingertips only slightly wrinkled and her skin still flushed from the hot water, she heads directly for the bed and her husband. Climbing up next to him, she leans closer and...

Stops.

A small, gentle snore whispers from between his slack lips and whistles lightly through his nose.

With a small huff of disappointment, Alice sits back a bit and regards him. Botheration, but she'd hoped...! It's been over two months since the last time they'd...! And Mirana's pastes and potions have worked _wonders_...! Even the depression her mother and sister had warned her about had run its course and now she's Herself again and she wants...!

"_Thwimble fumpt_," she mutters under her breath.

A small twitch from within the blanket Tarrant still holds close to his chest draws her gaze. Alice smiles down at Tam, who is wide awake and appears to be studying his father's face with Great Interest.

"Yes," she whispers to him, unable to _not _touch her son, offer her finger to him and watch him curl his little hand around it. "He may Share those features with you some day. I hope you like them as much as I do."

Tamial is too young to have mastered the art of smiling, but he seems pleased nonetheless.

Alice gently lifts Tam from his father's arms and moves off the bed. She paces with him in front of the fire until he gets drowsy and her hair dries. She keeps an eye on Tarrant, too: worries about his back, but lets him sleep.

When she looks down and sees Tam's eyes – a soft amber now! Tarrant had told her they'll keep changing until he chooses a Disposition he prefers over the others – soften with exhaustion, watches those little eyelids begin to lower, she places a soft kiss on his brow, inhales the scent from his thin, red-gold curls. She lays him down in his bassinet and then moves to the side of the bed to make sure Tarrant is deeply asleep. She sees that he is and dares to shove him a bit. He snuggles down until his head touches the pillow. She pets his long hair gently as she watches her husband sleep.

"Thank you," she whispers. "Without you, we wouldn't have _him._"

How many times has Tarrant saved her life?

In the makeshift hat workshop in Salazen Grum.

During the battle on Frabjous Day.

Through the looking glass of her cabin aboard the Wonder.

During the Trial of Threes.

During the Champions' Duel when she had fought for Jaspien.

And not only had he Killed Time for her, but he had Moved it: had gone into the Past...

Her husband is a hero. She's known this since she'd realized that he'd saved the White Queen on Horvendush Day, since he'd organized the Resistance...

Tarrant Hightopp has always been a hero. Most recently, he's been Alice's.

She glances once more over the edge of the bassinet at their son, who sleeps on his stomach, oblivious to the wide world and the great gift he's already been given.

"Your Fa saved you," she informs him softly.

Yes, he had. Alice doesn't doubt that Tarrant would still do anything and everything necessary to save her life if it ever comes to that again, but now she knows she's not alone in receiving that honor. Now she knows she shares that Special Place in his heart with another, with Tamial.

And Alice can think of no one else she would rather see secure and safe beneath Tarrant's capable protection.

This is not the first time she's had this particular Thought, but this time she does not cry. She does not sob. She does not wake Tarrant with the overflow of intense Anguish these sorts of things have been capable of coaxing from her until very recently.

Tonight there is no gut-wrenching, heart-twisting, inexplicable sorrow.

Tonight, Alice smiles, slides into bed, and when she feels Tarrant's arm wrap around her waist and his nose press into her hair... she sighs and goes to sleep.

"Hightopp. I'm in need of your assistance."

Tarrant looks up nervously at Hamish Ascot across the billiard table. "I've heard that before," he mutters darkly.

Hamish frowns in confusion, blinks in recollection, then smirks in expectation. "This is a favor of a completely different variety," he assures him. "Although, by some standards, it _is_ more perilous."

"Then tell me in the carriage," Tarrant requests, lining up his shot. "So that I won't have to repeat my refusal so many times."

"I'm afraid I can't take 'no' for an answer on this particular occasion," Hamish replies. "Besides, 'tis the holiday season. Christmas is just around the corner. It's rude to refuse to help your fellow man."

"But it's not rude to drag him away from his wife and son on a moment's notice?"

"For the love of the queen!" Hamish huffs. "You've been trapped in that house for an entire month. I _rescued _you!"

Tarrant pulls back the cue stick, pauses, looks up a Hamish, stands, pinches his nose between his thumb and forefinger, takes a deep breath, counts all his friends from Thackery – backwards! – and says, "Ascot."

His tone turns the unpretentious syllable into a very Dirty sort of word, indeed.

"Besides," Hamish continues blithely, disregarding Tarrant's Tone. "You can't tell me you've completed all of your Christmas shopping! Not unless you've had the vendors come 'round the house for you to peruse their wares!"

"Shopping?" Tarrant echoes.

"Yes. Shopping. For Christmas presents," Hamish explains very carefully.

"Presents?"

Hamish rolls his eyes. "Bloody...! Of course. I should have known what with your absolutely barbaric fascination with knives that you'd know nothing of Christian customs." He eyes Tarrant warily. "I feel it's my civic duty to inform you that your immortal soul may be in great jeopardy, sir."

Tarrant blinks. "Immortal...? Never mind! Never mind! What's this about presents? There's to be some sort of Gifting?" And why hadn't Alice _told _him this?

"Yes! Pay attention, Hightopp!" Hamish clears his throat and lowers his voice. "Now, it's customary to buy close friends and relatives a thoughtful gift. Perhaps something they would like to have but for some reason – expense, perhaps – refuse or hesitate to purchase for themselves."

Tarrant swats the cue ball with the stick in his hands, giving up on taking the shot he'd been due. He's too busy considering the fact that what little Uplandish money that still remains in their possession is with Alice at the moment, so how can he possibly purchase anything for his wife, their son, their hostess, and everyone else who ought to be Thanked properly with a Christmas gift?

"Must the gift be bought?" Tarrant queries, interrupting Hamish. But as he hadn't really been paying attention anyway, it's all for the best. No doubt the man will thoughtfully repeat himself. And be more blunt about it the second time around.

Hamish gives him a brief glare. "No, there's no requirement stating that the gift must be bought, although I hope you're not considering thievery."

"What? No, no, of course not!" Tarrant responds, thoroughly Offended.

Seeing his distaste at the Idea and his disgust with Hamish for even Thinking it, Ascot nods. "Good. Now, as I was saying, I'll need your expert advice. I've noticed you have a way with children and I'm endeavoring to procure an appropriate gift for Winslow."

"An appropriate gift," Tarrant echoes nervously. "What would be an _un_-appropriate gift?"

Hamish frowns in thought. He inspects the tip of his cue as he often does with his walking stick when he's uncomfortable or stalling for time. "Well, I wouldn't want to purchase anything too... advanced for him. To do so might suggest that I expect to be present when he makes use of it in the future. That would... give the wrong impression, I believe. So I must find something he can enjoy now and also in the future as I'd regret it very much if the gift indicated that I _wouldn't_ like to be present in Winslow's future when the fact of the matter is that I _hope _to...well... that is..."

"Ah. A gift for _both _Winslow's mother and Margaret's son! Now you're starting to make sense." Tarrant gives him a long look. "Was it really necessary to over-explain?"

Hamish huffs again but his lips twitch in a reluctant smile. "Yes, I believe it was. Otherwise I'm sure you would have expired from shock at my candidness."

Tarrant snorts. _Candidness. Candied. Candied-ness!_ "I enjoy being the one to tell you this, sir, but you're going to have to work on your Sweet Somethings if you hope to one day charm Lady Manchester's ears!"

Looking fabulously scandalized, Hamish hisses in the near-empty room, "You are enjoying this situation at my expense just a little too much, Hightopp!"

"I disagree! However can one enjoy something too much?" he counters, grinning.

Hamish leans back and sighs. "Yet again, you make far too much sense to be considered sane." He regards the table. "Are you at all interested in finishing this or shall we begin my errand now?"

"Let's begin your quest for Winslow's gift," Tarrant decides. "You can give me more examples of appropriate gifts. I'll need to prepare something for Alice and Tam, and Mrs. Kingsleigh, of course..."

"Right, come along then," Hamish says, sending the balls into nearby slots with fashionable flicks of his wrist and then turns and racks his cue stick. "I shall educate you on the way."

And Tarrant will say one thing for Hamish Ascot: when the man takes on a task, he applies himself to it _thoroughly_. By the time they've disembarked from the carriage and entered a rather posh-looking toy shop, Tarrant wonders if, perhaps, he should have been taking notes! But never mind! Never mind! He knows what will be expected of him on this Christmas Day. Now all he has to do is find – formulate, finagle, figure out! – a way to...

He finds himself staring at a small, brown, velveteen figure of a stuffed rabbit and has a Moment of Inspiration. "Yes, exactly!" he very nearly shouts. Hamish, who had been inspecting a wooden train set, steps over and blinks at the toy.

"This one?"

"It's perfect!" Tarrant enthuses, still wrapped up in his Plans. "Thackeries are _highly _useful, you know," he continues, picking up the lifeless creature.

"Well. Despite your insistence on being incomprehensible most times, I must admit it's a charming thing. If a bit plain."

"Plain things are the very best sort," Tarrant assures both Hamish and the velveteen rabbit. "For they can always be dressed with Imagination, which never ceases to suit them unfailingly well."

He offers the squish-ably soft toy rabbit to Hamish with a smile.

Hamish blinks at him then accepts the potential Winslow Gift. "It's sometimes frightful to hear such oddness come from you... and believe it actually makes sense," the man mutters, looking over the brown bunny.

"You'll miss me when I've gone," Tarrant predicts suddenly. And then amends: "When we've gone. Don't even try to deny that Alice's muchness has grown on you!"

"Muchness is what you call it?" he responds in a skeptic tone. "But yes, I believe I will. As will my father. You know he's been asking about the two of you. And your son, of course. He sends his best. He'd like you to come out for a visit before you go, if you think Alice is up for the trip."

Tarrant hesitates, glancing out the shop window at the dour weather. It is cold and rainy and that rain often turns to ice by morning; he can see it gleaming in the light of the gas lamps on the street when he parts the curtain of their room and looks out...

"Suppose the carriage had trouble keeping its wheels together on the ice? Or found itself unequal to the task of staying on the road?" Tarrant murmurs. "I'd feel much better if I could interview the vehicle before we set out..."

Hamish snorts. "Well, perhaps in the spring you'll make the trip out to the estate."

Tarrant looks down and finds himself staring into the glass eyes of a porcelain doll in a blue dress. "Perhaps. Hamish..."

"Yes?"

"We'll be returning home soon."

There's a brief pause. "Yes, I expect you would have to. But certainly not in this weather?"

Tarrant sighs and meets his friend's gaze. "In truth, the weather has no bearing whatsoever on our mode of transport. Alice has invited both her mother and sister to be there when we... leave. And I'm inviting you."

"Of course I'll see you off, Hightopp."

"I... Thank you, but..."

"What is it now?"

Tarrant smiles. "I'm afraid it will be a terrible imposition for you, seeing as how you don't believe in magic."

Hamish snorts. "A magical mode of transport? What will you do? Walk through a wardrobe?"

"Not quite," Tarrant replies, Intrigued by the idea. "Although it wouldn't surprise me in the slightest were that an actual route to... Somewhere."

Hamish scowls. "What on earth are you talking about?"

"Magic," Tarrant repeats patiently. "I'm sure you'll believe it when you see it."

Hamish has no witty rejoinder to that. Instead, he asks, "Let us assume I will be able to... _accept_ that some sort of magic exists. But... why show me at all?"

Tarrant grins. "It would be nice to see you at tea on Mondays."

"Tea... on Mondays?" Hamish confirms slowly.

"Yes. It's all arranged. Alice will be coming back on Mondays for afternoon tea with her mother and sister. When possible, I'll be accompanying her."

"Just... for _tea?_" Hamish repeats warily.

"Yes. Tea is quite the most Important beverage of the day."

"Hightopp..."

"Ascot?"

"I do believe I..." And here, Hamish's confused frown reverses itself into a delighted grin. "I should very much like to continue our association. It has been... unexpectedly rewarding."

"Yes, yes, it has!"

And rewarding things deserve things awarded to them!

Tarrant watches Hamish call the clerk over and pay for Winslow's Christmas present. Tarrant, however, does not follow the exchange. He feels his eyes un-focus as he considers all the he will have to do, and the brief time in which he must do it!

* * *

Notes:

1. The reference to Alice's depression and moodiness since the birth of her son is a nod to postpartum depression. If anyone was wondering. It's a subject that deserves far more attention than I give it, but, dang it, this story is Long Enough already! Besides, between the heart line and mysterious Mamoreal miracle medicines, I think she'd be OK... ish.

2. Yes, that was a Narnia reference. (^_~) b

3. Three words: The Velveteen Rabbit. *sniffleLOVEsniffle*

* * *

[End of Chapter 20: Scenes 1 & 2 of 3]


	123. Book 3, Christmas and Magic, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Twenty: Christmas and Magic  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

The first clue that Tarrant had been Up To Something had been when she'd caught him sending a scroll through the small Mamoreal mirror. He'd jumped when she'd called his name. Yes, he'd very clearly jumped and his eyes had been a rather interesting shade of Guilt.

"Writing to Thackery?" she'd asked, off-handedly.

"Er... well, yes, but... it's nothing to worry about, you know. It's just a... a..." Alice had watched him search his scattered thoughts. "_A recipe!_" he'd fairly shouted. "Yes, yes, a recipe. Nothing to worry you at all!"

And, normally, a recipe _wouldn't _worry her. Not at all. However, Tarrant's mannerisms had spoken of Something Else. Something he is attempting to keep a Secret.

Alice hates secrets. Of all kinds. General _and _capitalized ones.

"Hamish is coming over for Christmas supper," Tarrant had announced to fill the Suspicious Silence. "And he's staying... after."

"After?" Alice had asked with raised brows.

"Yes. I've invited him."

"I... see." Getting Margaret to agree to see them off had been hard enough, especially with their mother refusing to confirm or deny that Mirana had departed their house through the mirror! Alice _knows _her mother had seen her do so; she'd had that shocked look about her for days after Tamial had been born. Alice wonders if Tarrant had felt this frustrated when she'd been insisting that Underland had been nothing more than a dream!

Tarrant had fidgeted a bit as she'd considered the fact that he'd invited Hamish to join her mother and Margaret to watch as she and Tarrant step through the looking glass and return to Underland. And she'd spent another moment noting his nervous gestures and feeling his discomfort sizzle along her heart line, wondering what in the world could be making him so anxious.

Finally, she'd smiled. "All right. But if he panics..."

"He won't!"

_Will you?_ she'd nearly asked but had bitten her tongue at the last moment.

Now she wonders if, perhaps, she should have been a bit more... insistent last night.

"What in the _world _is going on up there?" Margaret demands as yet another series of ceiling shaking _thumps!_ gallop down the hall.

Alice, her hands full with taking care of Tam's most recent testament to the astounding progress an infant's digestive system can make, frowns. "It's Tarrant, I'm sure. He shouted something about Christmas presents this morning before he dashed out of the room like the ribbon on his hat was on fire."

"Now, _that_ I'm sorry to have missed," Margaret mumbles.

Upstairs, a door slams and several other boisterous thumps are heard.

"Is that coming from... Mother's sewing room?" her sister muses with a scowl.

Alice can't confirm or deny that as she hadn't really been paying attention. "Most likely. He's determined to make something for each of us before Christmas morning. Despite my assurances that it wasn't necessary." Her mother and sister had agreed not to exchange presents this year when Alice had gently explained that Tarrant is unfamiliar with the custom and he has quite enough to keep him busy just now. But somehow, he'd Found Out. Alice blames Hamish.

Margaret observes, "By Christmas? But that's the day after tomorrow!"

"I'm aware of that," Alice replies, juggling various squares of clean linen, soap, and a basin of warm water. "And, from the sound of it," she adds as more enthusiastic thumping erupts from above, "so is he."

"Do you put up with this sort of thing often?" Margaret dares to ask.

Alice gives her an exasperated look. "There _is_ a reason for why the hat workshop is in a separate wing of the castle."

"Hmm..."

_Thump! Thump-thump-thump-thump!_

"Oh, this is ridiculous!" Margaret declares. "How are we supposed to concentrate with all this racket going on?"

Alice assumes the question is rhetorical and Margaret does not want to know how happy it would make Alice if their cross-stitch session were cancelled due to an overabundance of thumping.

_Thump thump!_

"I'm going up there."

"Margaret...! At least wait until I've got Tam all dressed again!"

_Thump!_

Margaret twitches, huffs, and glares at the ceiling. Alice knows that Look. She grabs Tam's bunting and hurriedly – but carefully! – bundles him into it. Tamial, who has become accustomed to rather leisurely sorts of changings, with lots of singing and playing and bathing and such, takes exception.

"Oh, brangergain i'tall!" Alice mutters as he lets out a loud wail of disappointment in response to the poor quality service he's received. This, combined with the thumping, apparently satisfies her sister's Limits. Without another word, Margaret pivots smartly on her heel and sweeps out of the open lavatory door. Alice grits her teeth as her sister _marches _toward the stairs.

"Bloody. Blasted. Boggletogs!" Alice informs her son, wrapping him up in a warm blanket and scooping him up in her arms. By the time she makes it to the stairs, Margaret has already reached the top landing. Mindful of upsetting Tam – whom she's noticed is very Particular about the speed, smoothness, and general rhythm of his transportation – Alice follows. She peers over the top step just as Margaret comes to a stop at the sewing room door.

Her face skewed into a most irksome expression, Margaret knocks once then throws open the door. And gapes. And, fumbling for the doorknob, closes it again. She then blinks, shakes her head, opens the door again, gapes once more, then firmly shuts it.

By this time, Alice has managed to mount the stairs and is striding down the hall.

"Are you all right?" she asks.

"Alice!" Margaret turns and holds out her arms.

Mindful of Tam's Preferences in motion, Alice glides a bit faster. Yes, she really _should _have asked Mirana about those comportment lessons! "What is it?" Alice asks, wondering if her sister had somehow caught Tarrant in between trousers and kilt. And, if so, she really _ought _to be looking a bit more appreciative of the sight!

Margaret takes a deep breath. "I need you to open that door and tell me I've not gone mad."

Intrigued (and a little relieved that Margaret had – apparently – _not _seen something she Should Not Have!), Alice reaches for the doorknob. As the door gently squeaks open on its hinges, she finds herself greeted with the very wide, very guilty stares of her husband, Mallymkun, and Thackery. The three of them are still standing frozen in the midst of what looks like the ruins of a sewing-room-turned-hat-workshop.

She snorts.

Turning away from the utterly inanimate scene on the other side of the threshold, Alice giggles and regards her sister. "Would you like me to confirm that there is, in fact, a white dormouse in lovely blue brocade jacket and a march hare in a striped waistcoat who both appear to be helping Tarrant with the making of a variety of hats?"

"Um..."

Sniggering, Alice turns back to the room and watches as Mally looks up at Tarrant questioningly. Tarrant glances at the dormouse guiltily. Thackery twitches, hiccups, and shudders.

"Hello," she greets them. "Welcome to London. Will you stay for tea after you've finished helping Tarrant?"

_That _seems to break the odd, ice-like air that had frozen them in place.

"Tea? That sounds lovely!" Mally enthuses. "And is that Tamial?"

"_Tea!_" Thackery exclaims. "Th' cups 'ad better b'upside dauwn an' righ' side out!"

"You were contacting Mally and Thackery about helping you with our Christmas presents?" she asks her husband, who nods slowly.

"You could have just _told _me," she chides gently, marshalling the will to _not _look at the not-finished projects scattered across the tables.

His smile is bashful and boyish in the extreme.

With a shake of her head, Alice starts to pull the door closed. She wishes them luck and then reminds them, "Open a window when the mercury gets a bit dense, will you?"

She receives three nods of agreement and then she shuts the door.

Margaret is still standing next to her, looking numb.

Alice explains, "You've just encountered two of our closest friends. I'll introduce you properly when they've time for a break.

"I'm... looking forward to it?" Margaret asks.

"It'll be a memorable experience," Alice promises, curving an arm around her sister's waist. "Now, let's go downstairs and you can show me those new cross-stitch patterns."

Surprisingly, her sister obliges. Or, perhaps, it's not so surprising after all. After seeing a mouse and a hare fully dressed and in the company of her brother-in-law, perhaps a bit of normalcy is not only welcome, but called for.

They cross-stitch.

And when Tarrant comes downstairs to ask about tea, they prepare a tray and take it up to their Underlandian guests in the sewing room.

Alice had warned her sister that Mally and Thackery were not normal animals. And certainly not dumb ones.

Mally fusses over Tamial, tickling his nose with her tail and winding her paws through his sparse, silky hair. She also vents at Alice: "It's so nice you _told us _we could stay for tea." And: "It's so exciting to _finally_ _know _I'm an aunt!" And so on and so forth. Tarrant twitters into his cup gleefully.

In response to one of Mally's more obvious – yet veiled in an uncharacteristically sweetly spoken tone – scoldings, Thackery throws a teacup at Alice, which she ducks easily and Tarrant catches deftly. "Now, now, remember what I told you, Thack," he gently reprimands. "We can't be ruining Mrs. Kingsleigh's tea set."

"Spoon!" the hare insists.

"Yes, yes, you can toss those."

And he does. Vigorously.

"Have you finished what you were all working on already?" Alice asks at this point.

"Nearly, nearly!" Tarrant assures her and she watches his eye color shift and flicker in response to the mercury glue he'd no doubt been up to his wrists in this afternoon. His gloved hands flutter about the tea service and his giggles are plentiful enough to charm Tamial, who waves his arms and kicks a bit despite his wrappings.

"Not today," Alice sympathizes with him just as Margaret dares to ask Mally about her family and then – upon learning that she is an unwed Mouse of the World – inquires about her profession. "But someday soon," Alice continues, speaking in a confidential tone to her son, "your Fa will teach you how to Futterwhacken splendidly!"

For that, Tarrant leans close to her and kisses her cheek.

And teatime continues:

Mally goes on about her recent duties as a member of the White Queen's Guard.

Thackery upends his teacup and commences with attempting to recombine the maker's name on the bottom of the cup into rare Witzend words.

"This is wonderfully mad," Alice whispers to her grinning husband. "You should have told me to expect them!"

"I wanted it to be a surprise," he lisps, his pupils mismatched in size and orientation.

"It was," she answers.

And later, Margaret joins her in waving goodbye to Mally and Thackery as they hop back through the looking glass in her old room. Tarrant had already sequestered himself in the sewing room again – "I've a deadline! So sorry, ladies!" – and so he had elected not to see his friends off.

After the rippling looking glass calms and its surface smooths flat again, Margaret approaches it and tentatively dips her fingers into it. "Is this how you'll... go back? Is this what Mother saw when your... queen... left?"

"Yes."

"Does it... hurt?"

"No, but it does feel a bit strange."

"I can only imagine."

Yes, but it is an imagining that Margaret never would have dared to contemplate. Well, not until now! And this seems to be the season for never-before-contemplated Things. For Margaret is quite obviously and equally stunned when, two days later, following Christmas supper, as she's wearing her Hightopp original bonnet and Winslow is playing on a blanket wearing his new beret, Hamish offers her a gift for her son to open.

"What's this?" she asks, startled.

Alice nudges Tarrant. "Let's see what's keeping Mother and that tea service," she murmurs. They make a discreet exit. As they close the library door behind them, they hear Hamish murmur, "It's only a trifle, madam."

"It's... very kind of you to think of Winslow," Margaret replies slowly. "A bit odd, you know, but I appreciate it..."

There'd been the sound of paper being torn and the soft, papery _pop!_ of a box being opened and then a gasp. A Margaret gasp.

"I understand it may not be... entirely appropriate. Please do not misunderstand me, madam. I am not suggesting I could ever fill the position his father once held. But, if you have no objections, I should very much like to be his friend."

"Winslow's?" Margaret clarifies, clearly stunned.

"Yes."

And on that note, Alice and Tarrant, with Tamial in his arms, tiptoe into the kitchen to see about that tea service and the conspicuously absent Helen Kingsleigh.

"Have you been sent to fetch me?" Helen asks smoothly when they enter the kitchen.

"Not quite," Alice tells her.

"We've sent ourselves to ensure the tea preparations take as long as possible!" Tarrant asserts.

Helen smiles and they dawdle. Alice passes Tam to his grandmother and she and Tarrant fiddle with the sugar bowl, debate the proper arrangement of the edibles, ignore the kettle when it begins to boil then they waltz over to the stove to the hummed tune of the Tumtums when the kettle insists on being ignored no longer.

They spend nearly thirty minutes puttering around in the kitchen.

And smile knowingly at each other with every uninterrupted minute that passes.

When they finally return to the library, they find Hamish seated on Winslow's blanket across from Margaret. Winslow's newest toy is performing a polka with the aid of Margaret's hands and Hamish is twirling the giggling toddler around and around. Alice swallows a smile at the sight of Win's beret perched precariously on Hamish's bright orange hair.

"Auburn haired men..." Alice hears her mother muse on a good-natured sigh.

"And blonde daughters?" she whispers back, grinning.

"An unexpectedly... satisfactory pairing," Helen agrees softly as Tarrant interrupts the dance to exclaim over Hamish's headwear.

"No, no, that is most certainly _not _the proper hat for you, sir!"

And, Alice has to admit, the dove grey billycock Tarrant produces and places upon his head _does _suit him much better!

"This is a Hat Party," Tarrant declares, assisting Helen with her wide-brimmed and luxuriously feathered touring hat before producing a tiny swatch of fabric from his pocket and tugging it gently onto Tam's head.

"A Hightopp tam o'shanter," Alice sighs happily. And, with the article being made from their son's tartan, there's no risk of his eyes _not _matching his headwear. Tarrant clamors upstairs and fetches both his own top hat and Alice's asymmetrical cloche-turned-sunhat.

"There!" he says joyfully as he places Alice's hat upon her head. "Now we all look ourselves!"

Hamish rebukes him, "Hightopp, how can we look ourselves while sporting hats we've never worn before?"

"Perhaps the hats have found us," Alice suggests.

"The Right Hat will always show one's Inner Truth," Tarrant agrees.

"Then what does the wrong hat show?" Helen inquires.

Tarrant gives her a sad smile and shakes his head. "Unfortunately, there are a great many people wandering around lost in the wrong hat, madam."

Alice considers this, considers her husband as he considers the sight of his son in the arms of his mother-in-law. She considers how very many people struggle to make themselves fit a top hat when a bowler would suit, a bonnet when their being begs for a cloche. So many misguided people, fearful people, people unknown to even themselves...

And Tarrant Sees it.

_I love your Sight,_ she Sends, her heart so tangled up in a feeling so precious she thinks she could weave a tartan from it and clothe him in it, using the edge of the mysterious pain she suddenly finds her heart in possession of to trim the ends and produce a cut to fit him perfectly.

Tarrant's breath hitches, his throat works, and when he looks up at her his eyes are black. Alice doesn't doubt that her own mirror his. Black: the Color of Everything.

The feeling is that Intense.

"Well," Hamish announces, demolishing the breathless moment. "As we're all perfectly safe from being lost in wrong hats, I expect now would be the time to give you the trifle I picked up with you in mind, Hightopp."

"And what would that be?" Alice asks as Tarrant beams with delighted expectation.

Hamish stands and leaves the room. They listen to his footsteps recede down the hall toward the front door.

"Do you think it's a walking stick?" Tarrant whispers loudly enough for Helen and Margaret to overhear. "Hamish is very fond of walking sticks, I've noticed."

"No," Margaret counters. "Hamish is very fond of _his _walking stick. And if he actually gives you that one, I think I might just swoon from the shock of it."

Helen raises her brows at the observation but does not scold her daughter for making such a... wifely comment about a man she's not married to. Well, not _currently _married to. And Alice suspects her mother holds her tongue not just because it's Christmas.

Hamish re-enters the library with a long, suspiciously familiar-looking wooden case under his arm. "The queen only knows why I feel the need to give you two of these – you could certainly do more than enough damage with one – but I'm quite confident my dueling days are over, so it's time to give them a new home."

Alice watches as Hamish sets the box down and gestures for Tarrant to open it. With visible reluctance, he does.

Alice steps up next to him and, looking down into the velvet-lined case, grins. "Well, now you won't have _any _excuses not to show me what you've learned!"

"A mahn's ne'er wi'out excuses," he grumbles, almost glaring at the pair of fencing foils.

"I trust you'll permit Alice to chase you around a bit with them, if for no other reason than to ensure you don't make it too easy for me to trounce you some Monday in the future." Hamish grins, looking quite proud of himself.

_Be-pridish, enpuffed Hamish Ascot,_ Alice muses, enjoying how Perfectly Outlandish fits this new man who has grown up and out of the shell of a shallow and spoiled boy. And if Tarrant Hightopp can work wonders like _this _on a man he's known for only half a year, what miracles await their son?

Alice grits her teeth at the sudden and _deep _Throb of her heart.

Again, Tarrant looks up at her in response and an inquiry tickles beneath her skin.

With a slight shake of her head and a wry smile, she puts him off. She'll tell him later. Perhaps after Tamial has grown up and is dancing the Wedded Step with his bride at the Maigh...

_Tick. Tick. Tick._

"What sort of clock makes a noise like _that?_" Margaret muses into the suddenly _tick-y_ moment in the room.

Alice frowns and automatically glances toward the clock which had been decked in holly to match the festive atmosphere of the library. But, no, the sudden, small, high-pitched, _twang-y_ ticking isn't coming from _that _time piece.

She turns back to Tarrant and meets his equally befuddled gaze. And then...

And then their gazes drop, as if choreographed to do so, to his vest pocket.

Slowly, he lifts a hand and dips his fingers into the fold of fabric and pulls out his pocket watch.

"It's ticking again," Alice observes, looking up and into his eyes.

His frown clears and his brows curve into a sad arch. "It's Time," he agrees.

"You'll be leaving now?" Margaret asks, gathering up Winslow and standing.

Alice nods. "Yes. We will." She holds out her arms to her mother who passes Tam to her.

"And... how will you be returning?" her mother asks warily.

"You already know the answer to that, Mother," Alice tells her softly.

"And yet not one of you has seen fit to inform me of it. Hightopp tells me I'll only believe it when I see it," Hamish pouts.

Margaret lays a hand on his arm. "And even then, you might not believe it," she warns him with a smile.

Despite the words, his own lips curve into a grin. Before Margaret can remove her hand, he presents his arm to her and she lightly curls her fingers around his elbow. "Well, I must admit, I'm curious now."

"There's a first time for everything," Alice can't resist observing.

Tarrant giggles.

Helen takes a deep breath. "And a second time for some." She gives her daughter and son-in-law a shaky smile.

Alice nods. "Then let's move upstairs, shall we?"

In Alice's old bedroom, a trunk, a valise and various other items they'd collected during their stay sit next to the looking glass.

"I'll go first," Tarrant offers, brushing his fingers down her back. Alice nods. "Ascot, if you'll lend me a hand? Still attached, of course!"

Hamish steps forward, wearing the frown of confusion Alice had seen quite often on her mother and sister's faces. He opens his mouth to protest when Tarrant doesn't stop in front of the mirror, but moves to step into it. Of course, Tarrant moves faster than Hamish's objection can be voiced and the man ends up squeaking in a very undignified manner as Tarrant stands half in, half out of the glass. His head and shoulders disappear for a moment and Alice imagines he's greeting whomever is waiting on the other side.

"Are you sure this is... quite safe?" Helen murmurs, her wide eyes locked on the alarming sight of a nearly-half of Tarrant.

"Perfectly. I've never even caught my toe on the frame on the other side."

"What's it like?" Margaret presses.

Alice considers that. "It's like walking through a reflection. It's cool to the touch and then it's warm. It pushes back on you a little and then it doesn't. It's like walking through a looking glass," she summarizes.

When Tarrant turns back to the room, he says, "The queen and a few... friends are waiting for us."

"Ah, we can't keep the queen waiting," Alice observes.

"She's got quite the rapport with Time, I believe," Tarrant replies. "Which would explain the reminder we just received."

Alice cocks her head to the side in agreement. "Yes, it would."

"Ascot, if you would pass me the valise last?"

Obliging, Hamish hands over the sword case first.

Alice embraces her sister. "I'll see you soon."

"Yes, very soon!"

"Mother..."

"I'll miss you, Alice."

"This isn't good-bye; this is the beginning! A new beginning. For all of us."

"I... hope you're right."

"I'm right mad, remember? You can trust in that."

"I shall do my utmost, dear."

She offers an arm and receives an embrace, offers her cheek and receives a teary kiss. And then, with a wave, she steps up to the mirror and her husband still standing in it.

"Let's go home," she whispers.

His eyes deepen in color past emerald to cobalt. "Aye," he agrees. Looking up, he thanks everyone, "Mrs. Kingsleigh, thank you for your hospitality."

"It was my pleasure. And I believe I asked you to call me Helen."

"You did. And, circumstances permitting, I shall again."

"You do what you must to ensure circumstances _do _permit, Tarrant. I'll be expecting you to accept my hospitality _many _times in the future."

"We shall. Lady Manchester—"

"Margaret," she interrupts firmly.

"Margaret, it has been most enjoyable making your acquaintance."

"For me as well."

"Ascot..." Tarrant looks at the man who has the most Disturbing gleam of calculating Muchness in his blue eyes. He sighs and grumbles, "_Hamish_, the next time I see you, I'll be explaining precisely _why _you cannot use looking glass travel in your trade."

"I await your explanation then."

With a nod and a smile, he gently curls his arm around Alice's shoulders and then they step back... through the looking glass.

And before Alice can register the fact that her mother and sister and Hamish Ascot are now merely reflections in the mirror, a shout goes up.

"Oi! Ye're back!"

"Ye're late fer _TEA!_"

Ducking Thackery's chosen projectile, Alice turns and gasps at the sight before her:

The queen's office is filled to _bursting _with their friends. She even glimpses Maevyn on the balcony and Chessur floating beside the young jabberwocky. From outside a distinctive _"GRRRRRRRRRBBBrrrlll! GRRT!"_ sounds from the Bandersnatch's throat.

She sees the Tweedles and Leif, of course. Even Nivens and a scowling Fenruffle. Her regular sparing partners, the frog footmen and fish butlers and..!

Mirana steps away from her husband and children and extends her hands to both Alice and Tarrant.

"Welcome home, Champions of Underland."

* * *

Notes:

1. A billycock looks similar to a bowler or a derby hat. The first one was made in 1849, I think.

* * *

[End of Chapter 20]

**Author's Note:** So, this means there is one more chapter and an epilogue left to Book 3. But keep checking back (or bookmark my homepage) as more OPK will be coming!


	124. Book 3, Two Champions, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Twenty-one: Two Champions  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

The training field at Mamoreal echoes with the sharp sounds of activity again. With the movements of Champions. With the conversations of swords.

Alice regards both her husband and her long-time friend and fellow Champion, Leif.

"Males with pointy sticks," she mutters on a fond sigh as Tarrant lunges and Leif has to leap back to dodge the blow.

"What was that, Alice?"

She looks up as Mirana floats toward her. "Oh, nothing. Where's the usual crowd?"

Mirana smiles the smile of a mother in fortunate possession of a Quiet Moment. "All napping."

"_All_ of them?"

"Well, the young ones. Bethie, Tarra, and Chestor are hard at work at their lessons."

Alice grins. "Congratulations."

"Thank you." Mirana leans against Alice's shoulder and peers down at the bundle in her arms. "And congratulations to you, too," she continues, seeing Tamial's eyes closed and mouth slack in sleep.

"He's been uncharacteristically tired all morning," Alice comments. "The ceremony last night must have worn him out."

The queen nods. "Yes, it's not often we hold the Rehabitation. So, when the occasion arises, it never fails to be quite... impressive."

And it had been. They'd traveled to Shuchland through the looking glasses two days before and Alice had been startled by what she'd seen. From the reports she'd overheard, she'd expected the palace to be in ruins, the clay homes lying in broken, dusty piles along the avenues, but – of course – she'd heard the news of the devastation months ago. Instead, the city had been even more breathtaking than she'd remembered.

"This is remarkable," she'd murmured.

"Champion Leif, Krystoval, and all the volunteers would be happy to hear that," the queen had commented, joining Tarrant in assisting her through the mirror. Normally she would have managed just fine on her own, but with Tamial in her arms, she hadn't been willing to take any chances.

The city had been _clothed_ in color. _Illuminated _with candles. _Pulsing _with life. And when she'd found Krystoval, she'd congratulated it.

"And you did all this despite feeling ill while we were Upland. Krystoval, I can't thank you enough for enduring..."

"Champion Alice, Lady Hightopp of Iplam," it had rumbled, angling its great crested head in order to peer down at the infant in her arms. Beside her, Tarrant had tensed. The Jabberwocky had ignored Tarrant's ever-present wariness and continued, "I have much to make amends for. Iplam was merely the beginning."

Krystoval had lifted its head and observed, "The Hightopp Clan has a future again. This is good, and more than worth a little discomfort."

Alice had smiled.

"Still... I would very much appreciate it if both you and Lord Hightopp would make Underland your _permanent _home."

"We have," she'd assured Krystoval and then she'd turned toward the hatchlings who had been clamoring all over to themselves to greet Tamial.

"Frighteningly fast friends," Tarrant had muttered, the heart line vibrating with anxiety as Tamial had – rather than scream and wail at the sight of the monsters – squealed happily and waved his arms.

Alice had patted his arm. Yes, it would seem that their family is destined to count the jabberwockies amongst their friends. Whether Tarrant particularly enjoys the idea or not.

It had been a joyous event in Shuchland. She'd declined an active roll – and had thanked Tamial for giving her an excuse to avoid having to make a speech! – and had listened to King Aven speak of the tragedy and the restoration. He had even thanked his son, King Dale of Mamoreal, for coming to their aid and Alice had reached for Tarrant's hand at hearing _that._

And then Mirana had taken the podium and repeated the tale that Alice and Tarrant had told her through their letters and interviews.

"With Valereth now resting at peace here in Underland, and due to the tireless efforts of all of us and the Intentional Magic, our world is safe again. And, more than that, it is waiting for us to live again! So let us smile through our tears and continue on!"

The applause had been deafening. Tamial had flailed a bit in response. Alice had had a sudden vision of life two years from now: a toddler with Futterwhacken tendencies.

For the first time, Alice had wondered if, perhaps, she should have caved to Tarrant's request for a Kingsleigh child. But no, no. She'd been right to insist on a Hightopp, she knows. The Hightopps had been made for this world. The queen is versed in the medicines their son might one day need. Another Kingsleigh... no. Despite the idea holding undeniable appeal – a grandchild of Charles Kingsleigh living in a world beyond even _his_ wildest imaginings – it would not have been safe.

And there, that night in Shuchland, with the glowing sandstone palace and sky filled with fireworks and jabberwocky flame, Alice had sat on a blanket with her husband, had kissed him as he'd taken his turn holding their son, had realized that it had all been Worth It.

"Alice?"

She comes back to the edge of the croquet pitch with a shake of her head. "I'm sorry. I was in Shuchland just now."

Mirana smiles. "Yes, as I suspected. You enjoyed the festival?"

"Very much. I never would have expected... That is, in Upland, if you want to live somewhere, you only need to get permission from the owner of the land not..."

"Not the land itself?" Mirana supplies, looking puzzled. "I'm sure I've said it before, but... things are certainly odd Up There."

"They are," Alice agrees. "It's good to be home."

She glances out at the two combatants. They're using real weapons and, even though the edges are dull, she worries. Tarrant and Leif circle each other, their chests heaving and faces frowning fiercely. The heart line tells her Tarrant is Concentrating, not Furymangling. For which she's very grateful: fury and rage have no business being present at a training match. Or a duel, come to think of it!

"I'm surprised you haven't tried to join them," Mirana observes.

Alice laughs. "Tarrant's promised to spar with me later this evening."

"Has he? So soon after you've given birth?"

Alice glares at Mirana's too-wide eyes and too-innocent expression. "Yes, he has, and you and I both know I've been completely healed for _weeks_. So if you even _suggest _to him that I shouldn't...!"

Mirana actually _sniggers _at that. "That sort of cruelty goes against my vows."

"Otherwise, I'm sure you'd do it just to repay me for not telling you I was expecting."

"I'd consider it, certainly," Mirana allows. "But, Alice, despite how much I _wish _I could have been told, I understand why you didn't. And you were correct: knowing you were with child and being forced to ask you to undertake such a dangerous task would have... wounded me deeply. Far more than not knowing in the first place. I cannot thank you enough for putting Underland and the safety of its residents first... again."

"Mirana, I made you a promise – to be your Champion – and it was sealed in blood and death." Ever since the duel between Hamish and Lowell, Alice has been considering the implications of being another's Champion, of spilling blood in that person's name, of killing… slaying... Yes, she had _killed_ the Jabberwocky all those years ago in the name of the White Queen. And Alice suspects that had sealed her fate: from that moment on, she would never _not _be a Champion. The training she'd received upon her unexpected return had not been _optional_ but necessary. The oath she'd later spoken in the privacy of the White Queen's Office had been a mere formality. And Causwick... Alice suspects she'd become Jaspien's Champion not because Mirana had released her but because Mirana had been convinced of the necessity of it, had believed it to be their only way to guarantee their continued safety while in captivity: Alice had become Jaspien's Champion because, in the end, the White Queen had _willed _it to be so.

Her life is not her own. Alice sees that very clearly now. Her life belongs – and will _always _belong – to the White Queen. Luckily, the White Queen is not only a queen but a friend, _her_ friend, Mirana.

Alice doesn't fool herself into believing she's accepted the fact totally that her fate is not her own. But really, who truly controls their own fate? No one. Not even a queen. Most _especially _not a queen!

It goes against Alice's nature to accept and _welcome _protection from someone other than herself. But she is trying to allow Mirana and Tarrant to take care of her. Some days it's a harder task than others. But, overall, she thinks it's getting easier.

Trust, it seems, is the sort of thing that either grows or breaks, but never remains the same from day to day.

Alice smiles proudly as Tarrant ducks a swing from Leif's broadsword then parries neatly. Even though he had objected to the practice, fencing seems to have benefited him very well, she observes. Of course, later tonight, they'll see just how much his skills have improved...

"Ah, I know that gleam in your eyes," Mirana observes with a smile. "That's the look of my Champion... and she's thinking about rolling around in the dirt with sharp, pointy objects."

Alice laughs softly and Tamial grumbles against her chest before settling down again. "You know me so well, Mirana," she congratulates the queen. "But it will have to wait. I have tea to attend this afternoon."

"The first visit with your mother and sister?"

"And a family friend, yes. I think they still have trouble believing I'll be walking through a mirror into my mother's house in London."

"That is what makes you suited to Underland, you know, Alice," Mirana observes. "Your ability to Believe. Unconditionally."

Alice smiles. "I've been wondering why this place suits me so well."

"Because you suit it." Mirana's dark eyes refocus on the fighters on the pitch. She smiles. "And because you – and only you could ever – suit the last of the Hightopps."

Alice chokes back the swelling emotion in her chest. She warms herself with it; it will keep until she can Share it.

"He's not the last. Not anymore," Alice observes, her arms tightening around Tamial.

Mirana shakes her head in wonder. "He would have been, if not for you, Alice. Someday, my dear Champion, you really must open your mind to a conversation with Fate. She has many interesting things to say. And only then will you see the design that has woven Underland into the place it is."

"There is method in all this madness?" she asks, smiling at her own joke.

"Method and more," Mirana replies, unaware of the reference Alice had paraphrased.

"Then, perhaps, someday I shall. Still, I'm not keen on the idea of Courting Fate. I'm a married woman after all." She winks at Mirana, sure that _this time _Mirana will share the joke with her.

She doesn't. "I'm sure Tarrant will understand, Alice. The choice is yours. Just as it is his."

"You... you are... _serious_," Alice stutters.

"Of course, I am, Alice. Courting Fate is a very serious thing."

Alice blinks. _That _is a thought that will take some getting used to!

Mirana pats her knee. "I have Courted Fate once or twice, myself. Many monarchs must. But you, my Champion, need never undertake _that _task. Unless you have reason to doubt me."

"I can't imagine that ever happening," Alice assures her, relieved to be able to stop thinking about the very Disturbing concept of courting Fate. She turns her attention back to her husband and the fact that, despite having set aside his jacket, waistcoat, cravat, and hat, he seems to be working up quite a sweat. The fabric of his pale blue shirt clings to the small of his back and is turning damp under the arms. She knows from years of life with him that his perspiration has the most intriguing scent: Tumtum sap and apple peelings and something she could swear is the hot wind off the salty Crimson Sea.

Beside her, Mirana shifts and Alice forces her eyes away from her husband and the inevitable destination to which Those Sorts of thoughts will lead her.

"How long will you stay in London?" the queen asks.

"Just for tea," Alice answers. "Tarrant plans to start getting caught up on hat-making."

"Ah, excellent! I'm afraid the requests for Hightopp hats have been... mounting."

Alice snorts. Yes, Tarrant had nearly fainted at the sight of his workroom when he'd opened the door this morning: parchments had covered nearly every available surface, the floor included. Alice is sure they'd been organized at one point, in order of date or perhaps urgency or even the relative importance of the requester. But now, after Thackery and Mally had come through to gather the supplies Tarrant had needed in London in order to finish those Christmas hats...

At the thought of Christmas, she remembers the gifts Tarrant had given her and Tam once they'd closed the front door to their apartment behind them. (The keyhole had even welcomed them back... before it had spied the baby in Tarrant's arms. "Oh, brass-in-need-of-buffing! Now I'll have regular slammings to look forward to when _that _one gets tall enough to reach the knob! _Lovely!_") The keyhole's snark had only added to the sensation of Coming Home.

They'd brought the bassinet from London and Tarrant had produced Tam's _other _Christmas present – a mobile which he'd fixed over the bed. Alice had been as transfixed by the gently rotating miniature hats on their thin wires as Tamial. (She'd hoped that was a Good Sign. Perhaps he'll one day take up his father's trade, as Tarrant had? But if he does, he'll _have to_ accept the Thrice a-Vow with someone, so perhaps it would be better if he doesn't?) She'd reached for Tarrant's hand when he'd come to kneel at Tam's bedside next to her. It had taken a moment before she'd realized that he'd removed her ring and was in the process of peeling the ever-present glove from her left hand.

"We're home nauw," he'd murmured, replacing her ring on her now bare finger and lifting her hand. He'd met her gaze as his lips had caressed her heart line. "An' I have sommat teh show ye, my Alice."

And that's when she'd noticed the new door in the parlor. A door that had opened easily and without complaint under her hand and had revealed a cozy bedroom.

"When we're ready, an' if'n Tam doesnae object... 'twill be his."

Alice had smiled and kissed him. She would have thanked him _properly_ for this gift of privacy if he had allowed her to.

But he hadn't.

"'Tis late, Alice," he'd replied with maddening rationality. "An' we've a celebration teh attend on th'morrow."

Tonight, however, Alice decides as she watches her husband spar, measures the spreading damp spots on his clinging shirt, _devours _his form and grace and power with her eyes... _Tonight _he will _not _deny her.

* * *

[End of Chapter 21: Scene 1 of 2]


	125. Book 3, Two Champions, 2 of 2

This chapter is **rated M** for non-explicit sexual situations. This chapter has been edited from its original (explicit) version in accordance with this site's policies. If you are OF AGE and would like to read the explicit version, please visit my homepage. Thanks!

* * *

_**Chapter Twenty-one: Two Champions  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Tarrant finishes sorting and stacking the hat orders and then regards his workshop. For a moment, he doesn't know where to start. He can't recall _how to _start!

And then, when a warmth that reaches between two worlds enfolds around his Panic and shushes it gently, he remembers.

He makes hats now: a hatter never-again-alone with his hats, passes customers by attracting Time! And Time is kind to him. Perhaps they've both managed to move past their grudges?

One hat after another is begun until he has a hatter's dozen on hat forms. When he runs out of forms for the next, he returns to the first and begins the process of Making it. Colors are applied and the requested baubles and bells and beautiful things. He works quickly and the rhythm numbs his mind as his Alice's pulse warms his heart.

Alice's pulse. Yes, now it is only his Alice who keeps him warm, sane, content. He will never again feel his son's warmth so intimately. Alice's warmth will never again contain his son's. True, he'd never _felt _anything different from Alice's heart... it had been the _Idea..._

An Idea whose time has passed. Now Tamial is his own person. And while he still needs his Fa and Mam, Tarrant somehow feels... diminished. His tools clatter to the tabletop; he thinks he understands now why Alice had been so very sad after their littlin' had been born. He thinks he Knows... in a way that most fathers never do. Had Tarrant's Fa still been alive, he probably would have warned him about this: the power of the heart line, the _thought _that a man can feel his child's life through the warmth of his wife.

"A rhyme," he muses past the choking lump in his throat.

_This accomplishes nothin', lad. Yer littlin's born. An' ye'll see him soon enough._

Yes, yes, he will! And that Time will arrive sooner if he concentrates on passing customers!

Tarrant collects his tools, blinks until his vision clears, and returns to his trade.

And he plies it unrelentingly... until movement on the other side of the room attracts his gaze. In an instant, he's there, beside the mirror. He notices his reflection – wind-swept hair, mismatched eyes, scratched and stained and scuffed fingers and knuckles – before he presses through, straddling the worlds.

And Alice is there, embracing her mother. Helen looks up at Tarrant and he nods in greeting. He also suddenly remembers he'd left his hat on his teatime chair and wishes he'd thought to wear it so that he might take it off to her.

"You're right on time!" Margaret exclaims.

Tarrant giggles. "Yes, yes, it seems that Alice's habit of lateness hasn't taken a liking to me today!"

"Tarrant. How have you been?" Helen inquires, separating from Alice.

"Quite busy, madam! And may I be permitted to say you're looking very well!"

"Permission granted," his mother-in-law muses with a wry smile.

He turns to Alice but he does not ask her if she is ready to come home. For some odd reason, the words get all tangled up around his Adam's apple. He holds out a hand to her.

She takes it.

"I'll see you again next Monday, if that's convenient," Alice says.

Helen nods. Margaret assures her, "We'll be here."

Alice smiles and then holds Tamial out to him. Tarrant curves his arm beneath hers and accepts their son against his chest. He looks down and into his son's eyes – fuchsia today! – and then, with Alice's hand still clasped in his, guides her through the looking glass with him.

And when they emerge in the hat workshop again, he smiles and releases a great, apprehensive breath.

"You were worried," she accuses.

"Always, my Alice."

"But Tam and I were perfectly safe the entire time!"

He lifts his gaze from his son's curious and roving gaze to his wife's nearly-frowning face. "Yes," he agrees, still holding her hand but lifting it so that he can trail his scraped knuckles along her cheek. "And I wonder if... that is, you might prefer... to stay there. Longer. Or for a Time. Or perhaps... I mean, I—"

Just when he's working himself up and into a mercury-induced frenzy, Alice reaffirms her grasp on his hand and presses the fingers of her other hand to his lips. "I choose us," she reminds him. "I belong here. With you."

His eyes drift closed and his heart seems to unfold itself from within a cubby hole in his chest. "I... Thank you, Alice. For choosing... for reminding me... for not minding that I still need you to."

"It's not that you don't trust me not to return, I know," she surprises him by whispering. "It's that the mercury makes you wonder if you're... enough."

"I'm half mad, Alice. Of course I'm not enough."

"Unless your wife specifically asked for a man who was half comfortingly sane and half wonderfully mad."

"She's have to be half mad herself to even think such a request."

"I believe she is."

Tarrant smiles down at her, leans toward her, presses his lips to hers. Tam's fist thumps against his chest and Alice giggles. "Perhaps Thackery has had words with him?" she suggests.

He sighs. Yes, Tamial seems to object to public displays of affection in a manner very similar to Thackery! "I do not look forward to the Time when he'll be able to aim and toss things."

Alice laughs. "Come on. Let's get ready for dinner."

And after dinner, after Tam has been settled in his bassinet, after one of the queen's nurses has arrived to keep an eye on him, Alice practically _drags _Tarrant down the flights of stairs to the croquet pitch.

"Eager, are we?" he muses.

"I don't know, Hatter. Are _we?_"

He chuckles darkly and unlocks the sword case. The moon is out tonight and its light glints off of the steel of the blade as he first caps it with a rubber ball then passes it to Alice. A grin worthy of Tarranya stretches her lips wide as she swishes the thing through the air, playing a whistling symphony.

Tarrant giggles madly at her antics and her very, very sloppy form.

"Alice, have you forgotten everything you know about sword fighting?" he muses, leaving his own sword in the box and stepping toward her.

"Of course not!" she declares. "But this isn't a sword. And we aren't fighting. Yet."

"All valid points!" he praises her. "However, your stance is quite unstable. In fact, you're barely up-standing." He reaches for her hips and tugs at her until she's centered over her knees. He lifts her arms to the correct pose and then, standing behind her and placing his hands on her shoulders, shifts her upper body into the correct orientation.

"Like this?" she asks before he can begin his planned lecture and lunges with an alarmingly appalling lack of finesse.

"Goodness, no!" he exclaims, his hands reaching for her. "Not unless you'd rather fall over than fight!"

Her back brushes against his chest as he reaches for her forearms and repositions them for an effective lunge. His right knee nudges hers until she picks her foot up and moves it where to it's supposed to be. The warmth of her is startling, scintillating, seductive. How long has it been since he's touched his wife... intimately?

Tarrant shakes his head. No. Not tonight. Tonight he's promised to teach her the basics of that badly named pastime, _fencing!_

"How's this?" Her voice comes to his rescue and Tarrant finds himself busy again, correcting her lackluster mock parry.

"Alice..." he murmurs as he lifts her arms yet _again _to the proper height and angle. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were a rather... deficient swordswoman."

Alice stills and then glances over her shoulder at him with a knowing grin, a challenging smile, the light of a _dare_ in her eyes. "But you do know better, don't you?"

His heart explodes into his throat at That Look. Fate save him, he _Knows _that Look. That Look had pushed him over the edge and into finalizing the first exchange of the Thrice a-Vow. That Look had pulled him to her until their lips had touched and her mouth had opened and his tongue had dared to sample the flavor of her...

Tonight is no different.

There's a soft, whispering clatter as the sword drops from her hand to the grass. She turns in his arms and presses against him – _holds onto __**him!**_ – and _demands _his attention, his presence, himself _within _her mouth.

He can't stop his arms from pulling her closer, even lifting her onto her toes and pressing his pelvis against hers. He can't. The thought had crossed his mind that he _ought _to stop himself. But, after looking both ways for on-coming trains and lines of thinking, the Thought had passed right through his mind and continued on its way.

"Mmm," Alice moans as she captures his tongue in her lips and sucks.

"Ngh!" His hands scrabble at her tunic before one declares the need to outflank her and weaves itself into her hair. He pulls her gently away from him and this _would _have been the moment to stop except the scent of her – warm and lush and a little earthy from perspiration – drifts up from her neck and into his nose and he _must _address that scent _properly!_

"Tarrant!" she gasps as his teeth groom that womanly Alice-scent from her skin. Her hands are at his shirt, ineffectually trying to tug it from his shoulders without having asked the buttons if they wouldn't mind parting with their respective buttonholes first. Normally, he'd fear for the seams, but it seems he's too far gone for that.

He wants her. Here. On the croquet pitch. Here, where she'd watched him spar. Here, where her eyes had followed him with sensual hunger that he'd very nearly expired from his own Want at the sight of. Here, where he must prove himself worthy to protect the queen in Alice's stead. Here, where he is still her Champion.

He wants a Champion's Reward.

Her hands find the closure on his trousers and, with the ease of years of practice, she opens them.

Tarrant's breath catches in his throat. He looks up at her, into her lust-laden eyes. "Yes," she says. Sighs. Gives him the reward he desperately wants.

"Here," he growls. Later, he'll wonder if his eyes had been colored with the Blackness. As it is, he can barely force himself to pause long enough to make the declaration-that-is-not-a-question-but-a-warning.

"Here," she dares him, rubs against him, enflames him.

Here it is.

Her tunic is no match for his fingers, her breeches no barrier to his hands. He lowers her onto them, uncaring of who may be watching in the bright moonlight, and _has _her.

It's only at that moment, when they are Joined that he realizes she's Won, for _she _now has _him._

She smiles, reaches for him. "I want..." Alice whispers, demands.

He gives. As he always Gives. Even though she had not Asked. Not properly.

He doesn't care. He leans over her until his arms are bracing him up and his chest just barely touches her skin. She arcs into him and gasps the words that Change everything:

"Please... Tarrant... I need... _you_."

"Ye have me," he promises her, glad that she does, indeed. So very, _very _glad!

He moves and she meets him and they clash and come together in the sweetest battle he's ever known and it's not fighting because she's _with _him through every brush of lips, through every pass of his chest against hers. Her hands urge him closer and push away all else.

This _is _a fight, he realizes. A fight against the rest of the world.

And he will fight this battle to the death. With Alice struggling with him, he cannot do otherwise.

He Loses himself in her, and then the heat explodes throughout him and washes over him, blanking his sight and stealing his breath.

And his Alice, his Champion, pulls him toward her, settles her lips against his, and gives him the breath from her own lungs to replace that which had been forcibly taken from him.

Despite the borrowed breath, he does not tell her he loves her. He does not tell her he needs her. He does not tell her life is Impossible without her.

He does not have to.

They share a heart line.

His Alice already knows what he does not say.

Just as he already knows what her answer is.

They remain there, a tangle of expired need on the pitch, until he leans back and gently begins to dress her in her wrinkled tunic. She assists him with her breaches, lifting her hips helpfully, then reaches out to help him straighten his clothing.

They stand.

And as they do, just when Tarrant begins to wonder how many people and animals and trees had just witnessed that, he notices the utter stillness of the world around him. Notices the way it holds its breath. And then...

And then it doesn't.

Beside her foot, Alice's foil begins to inexplicably roll along the pitch, as if it had been halted immediately following its decent, held by an invisible hand that had just now released it. The trees resume their rustling conversation in the once-again-meandering night breeze. The foil stops rolling and rocks gently back and forth three times before stopping.

Alice looks away from the not-sword Hamish had given them and up into Tarrant's eyes.

"That was very kind of Time," she whispers. "To stop just for us."

"Indeed, if that is in fact what just happened," he agrees softly.

She stares at him for a moment, then blinks, then arches a brow in playful skepticism. "Do you think we managed to Stop Time all by ourselves?"

"My Alice," he murmurs back, his mercury-stained, pin-pricked, callus-hardened fingertips tracing the curves of her face. "I do believe we have found ourselves a new riddle."

"Then let me hear it, Hatter."

He leans in until his lips caress the shell of her ear with every syllable they form: "What is Impossible for two Champions of Underland to accomplish together?"

Alice turns toward him and he feels her smile brush against his jaw and then she's whispering her Answer in his ear:

"I haven't the slightest idea."

"Perhaps we'll make a list?" he suggests on a breath.

"Let it always be empty."

_Always,_ he Agrees and then smiles, for there is nothing left for the two of them to do now except ensure that that list of Impossibles remains utterly blank and item-less.

In short, there is _everything _left to do.

Tarrant Hightopp is looking forward to it!

* * *

[End of Chapter 21]

* * *

**Author's Note:** So, this is "the end" of Book 3. The Epilogue will be posted next and then... yes, you guessed it: Book 4. As always, comments and feedback are welcome and a wonderful way to motivate a writer! Just FYI. (^_~)


	126. Book 3, Epilogue

_**Epilogue  
**_

_How is this possible?_

Mirana, the White Queen of Mamoreal, lingers on the threshold of the solarium terrace and gazes out at the scene on the wide lawn before her:

Her eldest daughter, Alicibeth, perches elegantly in the chair at her youngest sister's tea table and offers to refill Thacie's a cup.

Chestor, her eldest son is putting his best friend and steed, Winsommer, through a very intricate routine that could be a dance if not for the military precision of each step the stallion takes across the croquet pitch.

Mirana knows where her middle child, Amallya, is – where she always is at this time of day. And, of course, from the racket they're making, it's easy enough to locate her two youngest sons.

However, it is Mirana's second eldest daughter – the ever-perfect crown princess's identical twin – who captures her mother's attention. Mirana watches as Tarranya, who truly could be her sister's mirror reflection in every sense with the exception of character and hair style, lies on her back in the middle of the pitch, a blunt-edged practice sword at her side and her arms folded beneath her head. From here – in the shadows – Mirana can see that her daughter's eyes are closed and her short hair is tangled with drying sweat and dust. In this moment, Tarranya of Mamoreal looks utterly peaceful – a sharp contrast to her usual fiercely opinionated and confrontational disposition. The sight of her manages to unsettle Mirana even more than she had been before pausing on the threshold.

"Are you daydream walking, Mirana?"

She blinks and looks up at her Champion. She takes a breath, twirls her fingers through the air and manages to return her friend's smile. "Good afternoon, Alice. How was Tarra's training today?"

"Excellent. As always," Alice says, leaning against the railing and angling herself so that she can enjoy the view beyond. "She's determined, you know."

"As determined as you were?" the queen hears herself ask.

"More so."

Mirana sighs.

"What is it?" Alice asks, straightening. Her smile fades and her brows draw together in concern.

"I... Well, I..." Mirana draws in another deep breath and huffs it out. "Alice, how is it _possible _that I've become the mother of two _nearly __**grown**__ women?_"

Alice's lips twist into a wry smile. "I'm assuming you're referring to Bethie and Tarra?" She snorts before Mirana can reply. "You _were _at their birthday celebration last week, weren't you? You _do _recall it was their seventeenth?"

"Yes, yes, I do," Mirana sighs out. "Somehow... it hadn't seemed quite so... _real_ then."

And with uncanny insight – perhaps Tarrant's Sight has decided to accompany Alice today! – Alice remarks, "What happened to make it seem so _real _today?"

Mirana drifts over to the railing to stand next to her Champion. She needs a shoulder to lean on.

Alice turns to stand beside her and accepts Mirana's weight easily. But of course Alice would provide a perfectly steady shoulder for Mirana to lean on – she's had nearly twenty years of practice at it!

For a long moment, Mirana says nothing. She marvels at how neither she nor her good friend nor their spouses have aged but their children had certainly – and, at the moment, it seems quite _suddenly!_ – grown up. The queen's dark gaze sweeps over the genteel teatime of two young ladies, her son looking quite dashing on Winsommer, her twin boys attempting to out-Futterwhacken their best friend... (It's a lost battle, she knows. No one out-Futterwhackens Tamial Hightopp. Not even his teacher and father! Mirana watches the sunlight play with the boy's red-gold, curly hair as he twists and turns and dips and bows and steps and slides. The dance leaves her breathless and the boy hasn't even reached his Dancer's Prime yet! Not at a mere ten years of age!) Mirana almost makes a comment about how excited Tam must be about the coming Maigh but, in the center of the pitch, seeming oblivious to her brother and Winsommer's exercises, Tarra draws her gaze again.

"Mirana? What's happened?" Alice presses, all humor gone.

The queen sighs. "The Oraculum."

It's only two words, but Alice understands. Mirana can hear the caution in her Champion's quiet contemplation. And then: "Can you tell me?"

Mirana's spontaneous giggle slams into the back of her lips, which she'd pressed together very deliberately, then takes a detour and escapes through her nose, much to her embarrassment. "I'm afraid, my Champion, I'll be in need of your services again... soon."

Alice tenses. "I'm listening."

"It's Tarra, you see," Mirana continues, still studying her daughter.

"Yes? Is this about her insisting on becoming the next Champion?"

"No, actually. It's about her and a Mamoreal lion-man with a flunderwhapped expression on his face standing together under the arbor... with his First Claw around her neck."

"The arbor you and King Dale spoke your vows beneath?" Alice confirms.

"The very same."

"Oh, _botheration._"

Mirana lifts a brow and nods once in complete agreement.

"And how does this little drama come about?"

The queen sighs. "I'm afraid I don't know."

"You...? Excuse me?"

"Absolem, in his _infinite _wisdom –"

Alice snorts and Mirana makes a mental note to channel her frustration more circumspectly.

" – saw fit to only show me the one day."

"Hm. And just how much time will I have to prepare my interview questions?" Alice muses aloud.

"That... was also unclear."

Alice glances out across the field and Mirana watches her Champion regard her protégé with a thoughtful expression and crossed arms. "Once she's nineteen, she won't need a Champion to test her suitor for her. The image you saw could be... some time off yet."

"Do you honestly believe that?"

"No."

Mirana sighs. Yes, for some time now she's suspected her daughter is smitten with Champion Leif. And Tarra is not one to indulge in inactivity once she knows what she wants.

"But there's Leif to consider, you know," Alice tries to comfort her. And it would have been a comfort if Mirana hadn't overheard the lion-man – just yesterday! – call her daughter the most _sacred _of Shuchish endearments: _Tarrash-rya._

Mirana sighs.

Alice smiles. And when Mirana notices, she rolls her eyes. "You _would _enjoy this, _Champion._"

"Yes, I would," Alice agrees. "I'm quite looking forward to another round of Wooing Rights, Your Majesty. It's been a bit dull around here recently."

Before Mirana can decide how she feels about seeing her Champion fight her husband's Champion for the hand of her still-too-young daughter, Alice continues:

"If you ask Tarrant, he'll tell you the same thing the Oraculum did: it's meant to be." Alice offers up a sheepish grin. "He's Suspected for Some Time now. Actually, once he finds out what the Oraculum has shown, I fully expect him to be unbearably enpuffed about it."

"And were it any other situation, I'd been thoroughly entertained at the thought of Tarrant in an unbearable state of... puffiness."

Alice sniggers. "It's hard to imagine that he can puff up any more, I know, what with Tam being the dancer he is and so smart and funny. But it's possible. With Tarrant, _anything's _possible," Alice warns her happily.

"Very true," Mirana allows. And then dares, "Even that he'll manage to convince his son to take up his trade?"

Alice shakes her head. "Tam got his stubborn streak from me. No, that one's not destined to be a hatter," she says with a contented smile. "Besides, Tarrant's very pleased with his current apprentice."

Mirana grimaces. "Yes, I was afraid you'd say that."

Alice laughs. She glances from Tarra to Tamial then commences with a brief survey of the wellbeing of her other charges. "Everyone is fine, Mirana," Alice assures her. "And happy and I'll prove it to you; it's nearly teatime and I think there's room for one more chair around the tea table in the workshop." Straightening, Alice gestures for Mirana to follow her. "Come on. Amallya can show you what she's working on. You'll even get to see Tarrant looking thoroughly enpuffed over his apprentice's most recent accomplishments!"

"And with a treat like that on offer, how can I refuse?" Mirana replies and moves to follow.

Yet, on the threshold, she pauses, turns, and looks back at her children and at the one daughter in particular who seems to be teetering on the very edge of adulthood.

Tarra smiles up at the sun, still lying on the pitch, her eyes closed to the world around her. With all her heart and not only _her _soul but her _husband's_, Mirana wishes she could say something to encourage her daughter to linger there just a little longer, in childhood. But Mirana knows her child, her daughter, her brave warrior-woman.

And just as certainly, she knows that Change is coming for her.

Soon.

But not today.

"Mirana?"

The queen takes a cleansing breath, coaches a smile onto her lips and turns around. "Sorry, Alice. Yes, let's go to the workshop for tea. I'm ready for Amallya to impress me."

Alice grins and reaches out to rub Mirana's shoulder. "And you'll be ready for the other thing, too. When it's Time."

"Yes, everything has its own Time."

Alice's eyes flash with a secretive gleam at that comment and Mirana finds herself wondering what it is Alice _Knows_ about Time. "How very true, Your Majesty. How very true. And at the moment, it's teatime."

"It is."

And that is how life must be lived, Mirana knows: one moment at a time. This one will be for tea and hats and the princess who is determined to make them for the rest of her life. And, for now, Mirana will focus on that.

The rest will come when it comes. As it inevitably will.

And, when it does, she'll be ready for it. After all, that's her job.

As a queen. And as a mother.

* * *

*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*

* * *

**Author's Notes:**

Yes, approximately **ten** years have passed since the end of Chapter Twenty-one.

Yes, I realize I didn't mention what happened with Margaret and Hamish (and Lowell).

Yes, I know I didn't really discuss what Courting Fate would mean.

Yes, I am aware that there's this very Interesting hint about Stopping Time floating around in OPK now.

I haven't forgotten. I promise. (^_~)

Keep an eye out for Book 4 updates. Or visit my homepage. Thanks for reading, everyone!


	127. Book 4, A New Champion, 1 of 3

_The following is a work of fan fiction. NO profit or compensation was provided in exchange. NO copyright infringement is intended._

_**One Promise Kept: Book 4**_  
a fan fiction by Manniness  
_Alice in Wonderland (2010 film version)_

**Summary:** Times have changed and the next generation is coming into their own. Alice and Tarrant step aside and take up their responsibilities in Iplam. But the past, despite being in the past, is a shadow one can never truly escape.

**Rated: M** for Violence, Sexual Situations (non-explicit), Mature Language, Angst, Mature Themes (including Domestic Violence)

**Status:** Finished! [From November 12, 2010, the complete story is available on my homepage – please see my bio for the link, but PLEASE NOTE THE RATING and WARNINGS! OPK 4 is rated M and has **not** been edited from its original version.]

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_**Chapter One: A New Champion  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

Dawn comes with a whisper and a kiss to Iplam. The light from the rising sun is a gray, gloaming glow within the mist. The Champion Blossoms stir a bit and when the light is too dim to inspire them to awaken, they resume dozing, drenched in dew.

Alice watches this from the front steps of the manor house. Blades of grass are ticklishly cool and then warmed from her own body beneath the soles of her bare feet. Droplets of condensation soak into the hem of her breeches and her tunic is collecting dust from the often-trod wooden steps. When she stands, she'll have dirt lines across her rear. Again.

She sighs and lifts her gaze from the still-sleeping flowers that dot the wide clearing. Through the mist and morning muzziness of the land, she makes out the lines of shops and cottages and large-ish homes ringing the widely curving, cobblestone circle drive. The windows of each shadowy residence and humble establishment are dark now, but they won't remain so for long. Soon, the residents of Iplam will awaken, prepare for the day, open their shops, get to work on their crafts. Soon, this place will be thrumming with life and the living.

So why is it that she – Lady Hightopp of Iplam – feels so very... life_less?_

Alice lifts her hands from where they grip the edge of the stairs (as if she'll dissolve into the mist if she doesn't Hold On Tightly!) and regards her palms and fingertips. Her calluses have begun peeling; as each day passes without her having lifted a sword or answered a challenge with a staff, her hands heal.

She doesn't want them to. In fact, she has been Avoiding this very thing ever since she'd agreed to stay in Upland until Tam had been born. She'd lost her calluses then, but she'd known she would one day have them back where they belong. But, in the back of her mind, she'd known that one day – when it is finally time for her to be a Lady – she would have to let them flake off and fade for good.

_It's too soon!_ she thinks, swallowing against the sensation of her heart hardening with despair.

And yet here she is: her calluses are leaving her. She can insist on wearing her usual tunic and breeches or shirtsleeves, vest, and trousers, but she cannot stop the Healing that she is not ready for.

It doesn't matter, for Iplam is ready for _her_, is ready for its laird and lady. And Alice has had enough experience with both responsibility and the stubbornness of Underland to know when she's facing Inevitability.

"'Morn," Tarrant observes softly, his bare feet descending the steps until he can sit beside her on the dusty planks with his toes in the grass.

Alice nods and accepts the cup of tea her husband offers her. She sips and waits for the heat of it and the strength of the brew to dissolve her melancholy. Perhaps after that she'll be able to return the observation.

_'Morn._ Tarrant had said. It is not a greeting or a hope for a new day, but an observation of the time. Or perhaps it's not _morning_ he's declaring but _mourning._ Perhaps he's giving her permission to continue grieving for her old life.

"'Morn," he says when he finds her here. (Or perhaps: "Mourn.") Not: _Gehd mornin', my Alice._ He has not said "Gehd mornin', my Alice" in weeks. Alice wishes she could find it in her to miss that. She can't.

Not so long ago, when she'd still been a Champion and an instructor of the queen's children in the necessities of self defense, she'd been so sure she could do this. She'd been sure she'd been ready for it, had made peace with herself over it. She'd had plenty of time to do so. Arguably too much time. And Tarrant had waited for her.

More than once Alice had caught her husband looking out over Mamoreal at dusk, his attention turned away from the sunset over Queast and toward Witzend with a wistful look on his face and an ache in his heart that he hadn't been able to keep back. She'd known what he'd been thinking of: Iplam. Hightopp Village.

She'd known he'd been ready to return. To rebuild. To be a Hightopp again rather than a hatter.

It hadn't been a reason for Alice to agree to train her successor.

But it _had_ been a reason to _not _say "No."

But, she wonders, if perhaps she should have.

Just as Tarrant knows she's... _not happy_ here, she knows she's _ruining_ their new life. This is what Tarrant wants, needs, must do, she knows. These are the duties she'd accepted when she'd wed him. And this is her life now that the White Queen does not need _her _to be a Champion any longer. Or, at the very least, Alice is not needed _now._ Still, she worries that perhaps this temporary retirement will become permanent; she worries that her time as Champion has passed.

Even the tea can do nothing to move _that _thought full of rocks.

She feels Tarrant shift closer to her until his shoulder presses against hers. Their hands may be occupied, but he can give her this: his warmth, his solidity, his empathy.

"Batten blossom," she observes on a choked whisper as she stares into her cup of herbal tea.

"From the garden," he answers.

"It's good."

"It'll be a good harvest."

Alice nods and despairs for words, for Things of Importance to say. Recently, there is a dearth of both. She clears her throat. "Is Tam awake yet?"

"Nae."

They both pause, think, and struggle against Alice's aching heart and burning heart line.

"The party is the day after tomorrow," she finally says. She knows Tarrant is aware of this. He'd been sitting right beside her at Margaret's tea table when they'd received the invitation last month. But it's something to say. Even if it's not a particularly _interesting _or even a _worthwhile_ Something.

"Aye. I've finished Tam's suit."

At the thought of suits and tailorings, she turns toward him and studies his profile as he frowns into his tea. She only has a moment before he looks up but it shows her what she Feels: her misery is making him miserable as well.

_You're a Lady now, Alice. __**Try**__ to act the part._

She forces away the ache as best she can and smiles. "You wouldn't be needing any assistance with checking to see if your old tailcoat still fits, would you?"

Her teasing is a bit flat – she can hear it in her own voice – but she's _Trying_. Tarrant answers her efforts with a slow, if subdued, smile. "I might. You wouldn't happen to have the time for something like that, would you?"

"We'll Make Time," she answers, her confidence growing.

"I've already Made It," he tells her, collecting her nearly-empty tea cup and setting it aside with his own. He then reaches behind him and Alice follows his arm until she sees a very familiar wooden case sitting on the porch. "However," Tarrant continues, unlocking the lid, "I haven't Made It for suit fittings."

Alice accepts the foil her husband hands her, leans into the kiss he presses against her temple. It hurts to hold a weapon she has no business with now, but she doesn't let go. Can't let go. She needs this. And, bless him, Tarrant is _Trying_ even harder than she is to make this new life of theirs Work. All he needs is a little help from her to manage it.

She stands and holds out a hand to him. His stained fingers slide across her palm before he grasps her wrist. She braces herself as he stands, pulling just a bit against her for leverage.

"Best out of three?" she asks, taking her stance.

"Be-twix five," Tarrant replies, gifting her with more Time to be woman she had been, when she'd been a Champion. For a little while, there's Time for her to pretend that she has not stepped aside, that she has not become obsolete, useless, trapped.

She blinks back the sting behind her eyes, takes a deep breath... and lunges. Tarrant meets her attack, greets her pain, her need, her dream. The hiss and kiss of metal, the hush and shush of clothing as it brushes together, the pitter and patter of footsteps muffled in the grass mingle in the morning mist.

The blossoms sleep and Iplam waits. With silver foils, Champions play.

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[End of Chapter 1: Scene 1 of 3]


	128. Book 4, A New Champion, 2 of 3

_**Chapter One: A New Champion  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

"Being a Champion is supposed to be more exciting than _this_," Tarranya of Mamoreal grumbles loudly enough for the words to echo in the corridor.

Mirana's serene smile doesn't so much as twitch. Nor does her graceful stride falter. "Perhaps Champion Alice mentioned the tedium involved with the position?" she inquires airily.

"Well, yes, but..."

"You are aware that it's the Champion's responsibility to accompany the queen when she has audiences scheduled with the residents within her borders," Mirana gently inquires.

"Yes, but..."

"And that today is Wednesday and several meetings have been arranged. Meetings which these visitors have traveled hours, perhaps _days_, to attend."

"Yes, but..."

"And it is the Champion's job to not interfere with the Queen's duties unless a threat arises."

"Yes..."

Mirana allows a heartbeat of hesitant silence to pass between them. "But...?" she prompts.

Tarra sighs gustily. "It's so _boring._"

"Be thankful it is, Miss Tarranya."

This is not the first time Mirana has voiced this particular sentiment. Her daughter has yet to grasp the nuance of it, however. Breaking the pattern of their usual argument – no, no, _discussion! _– Tarra juts out her chin and demands, "And _when _are you going to let me take my vows? You already accepted Bethie's!"

Mirana regards her most stubborn child's most intimidatingly petulant glare. "Crown Princess Alicibeth has made a vow against harming any and all living things. Do not attempt to convince me that the Champion's Vow is as innocuous."

"But that's just it!" Tarranya's expression is triumphant. "Now Bethie can't even protect herself! That vow's dangerous without a Champion to back it up!" She concludes, "You should have accepted my vow when you did hers. It's only fair."

Summoning patience on a wave of caffeine-added control, Mirana replies, "You may argue your point until you are as blue as Batten in the face, Miss Tarranya, but the fact remains that _I _managed just fine without a Champion for _years._ This is a time of peace and the crown princess is quite safe for the moment."

Remarkably, Tarra does not jump to refute this.

"Now," Mirana concludes, "will you consent to be a substitute for the Queen's Champion today or shall I call for Alice to resume her post?"

She can hear her daughter gritting her teeth. "I apologize for delaying you, Your Majesty. Shall we attend to your guests?"

"Yes, thank you, Miss Tarranya. Let's."

As they continue along the corridor, Mirana allows herself a moment to wonder if her obstinate daughter will change her mind. Yes, Tarranya is well-suited to the fighting arts. Yes, Tarranya had been trained by the very _best _Queen's Champion in the history of the White Realm. But the realities of the job, which Alice had borne so well, are very clearly wearing on her protégé.

"She won't like the day-to-day tedium," Alice had predicted this time last year when Tarra had declared her intent to become a Champion one day.

"No, I don't expect she will."

"It will frustrate her and she'll lose focus. That would be inexcusable."

"What do you propose?"

Alice had grinned. "If we give her exactly what she says she wants, perhaps she'll change her mind."

"Permit her to become a Champion?" Mirana still recalls her utter shock at the proposal.

"Permit her to experience the job, but don't accept her vow. So long as she does not kill in your name..."

"Yes, I see what you mean, Alice." She'd sighed. "I suppose it's our only option. And I'm aware you have other duties that require your attention as well."

"Yes. Hightopp Village is nearly finished. Tarrant and I will have to... we should..." Mirana had watched Alice scowl out at the office balcony. "We have a responsibility to see it restored. That was what Krystoval intended after healing the land. And that's what Tarrant's family would have wanted. And... we owe it to the other clans who lost loved ones that day to start anew, to offer... a place for the next generation to ply their crafts. Settle down. Open the trade post along the route between Witzend and Mamoreal and Crimson Harbor again."

Mirana had noticed Alice's lack of enthusiasm at the idea, but she had not commiserated with her over it. She had not observed aloud that Alice must do this. She had not attempted to soothe her Champion with empty reassurances. There had been no guarantee the queen could make that would have... helped in this instance.

"And after your duties at Iplam are completed, perhaps..."

Alice had laughed. "Yes, when Tam is of age, perhaps he'll replace us, but... Tarrant wants this. His own shop. Something small. He wants to invent, he says. He wants harvests and plantings and his people around him. Amallya, despite being so young, has been ready for months to take over here. He's waiting for me to say I'll go with him."

"Then tell him you will. Once Tarra turns eighteen, we'll permit her to try the role of Queen's Champion on for size." Perhaps the position will not suit her at all...

Alice had nodded and they had been in reluctant agreement.

And now, Mirana wonders what will happen. As they'd anticipated she would, Tarra complains of the job's ill fit. And yet she is too stubborn to quit. Mirana wishes she could have her first Champion back, but Alice is tied to Iplam and the blossoming village there. For an instant, she daydreams about that past. Alice, standing silent and solid at her side, taking tea together, leaning on each other's shoulders on a balcony as they discuss things that concern two women who have known each other for a Long Time. Oh, how Mirana wishes her daughter back to childhood and her friend back to Mamoreal. True, she could release Tarranya from her service; she could call Alice back to the castle... But Tarrant would most likely not be able to accompany her, not with the new residents still settling in at Hightopp Village. Yes, Tarrant would remain at Iplam and Alice would be hours away in Mamoreal and what would become of her and Tarrant's marriage, in that case?

No, Mirana cannot ask her Champion to return. Not to ease her own loneliness. Not even to relieve her daughter of a tremendous and terrifying path.

Mirana does not wish to think about this now, so she doesn't. She pushes these thoughts aside as she sweeps into the throne room and takes her seat.

The day progresses quite normally. As the White Realm has no official currency, many of its residents travel to the castle when they need provisions but can find no one with which to barter. Or when one requires the materials necessary for building a home or shop. Mirana approves various tributes in exchange for cuts of timbre – from the Stoic Forest, of course, as those trees are the only ones truly suited to holding up a roof for any length of time. She consents to loaning out members of her guard for journeys to Shuchland and Galandonland. She orders bridge and wharf repairs to be carried out upon hearing politely-worded and thoroughly researched complaints.

Yes, a very normal day.

Tarranya stands beside the throne and stifles one yawn after another.

The audiences are finally concluded and Mirana sets aside the last page of her schedule. Beside her, her daughter takes a deep, cleansing breath. No doubt, she's congratulating herself on having survived another unbearably boring day.

"Your Majesty..."

Mirana looks up as Champion Leif enters the room. "Good..." She consults the rays of sunlight streaming in through the high windows. "... afternoon."

He nods to her as he closes the door behind him. He does _not _nod to Tarranya. Mirana notices this, as she always does. As she's sure _Tarranya_ always does. No, Leif had not liked the idea of a princess becoming a Champion. He had not liked it at all. And, apparently, he still doesn't.

Although Leif treats her daughter with a chill disapproval _now_ – when she is dressed as a Champion and standing in for Alice – Mirana knows the lion man easily laughs with Tarranya when she is a princess once again, at the end of the day. She worries about this duality. Worries what it will drive Tarranya to think, to do.

She thinks again of that one page in the Oraculum. That one moment in the future that is Coming. Although Absolem refuses to reveal anything else, _that _image he permits her to see whenever she requests to view it. In the last year-and-then-some, nothing has occurred to change _that _future. One day, her daughter will share a Soul Bond with this lion man. One day, they will be wed.

But, when that day will be, Mirana _still_ does not know.

"You Majesty," Leif murmurs, approaching the throne. "You've an unscheduled visitor. A furniture maker who has traveled from Crimson Harbor. He says it's urgent."

"Is it?" she inquires mildly.

Leif's golden eyes deliver a solemn gaze. His expression is aggressive with anxiety. "I believe it may be."

"Then please see him in."

Mirana retakes her seat and Tarranya sighs. Leif pivots on his heel and retraces his steps down the length of the white hall to the massive doors. He ushers in a short, round-ish, jolly-looking man with an embroidered eye patch.

"Master Symon Setteeson," Leif announces.

Mirana smiles at the blond, heavyset man but he speaks before she does.

"Yer Majesty. 'Tis been tae laung since I've had th'pleasure."

Yes, he should have permitted the queen to address him first, but Mirana ignores the man's lack of throne room etiquette. After all, _most _of the White Realm's citizens never see the inside of this room, so how can they be expected to know What Not To Do? "Master Setteeson. I recall our meeting. It was when you crafted this very seat for me, was it not?"

"Oh, aye!" he remarks with a start, as if noticing her throne for the first time. "Still, 'twas mostly m'Fa's handimade. An'it looks teh b' taken gehd be-well o'ye, Yer Majesty. Suits ye."

"Thank you," Mirana acknowledges the compliment. "I was very sorry to hear of his death." The senior Setteeson had been yet another victim to Iracebeth's incandescent rage. Something about an inappropriately tasseled set of sofa cushions...

"Yer Majesty's tae kenfull."

"What brings you to Mamoreal, sir?"

"Well, th'brevin kenment teh tha' t'would be: a muttermongin', Yer Majesty."

"Indeed? And a worrisome one by the look of you," she muses with atypical directness. But as Outlanders praise plain speaking above tact, she does not hesitate to adopt their customs in that manner. The man smiles with relief at her plain speech. Yes, he's traveled far and appears tired not only from the journey but from whatever is weighing on his mind so heavily.

"Come with me, sir, Tarranya, Leif. Let's adjourn to a more private venue."

And with that, Mirana stands and ushers her visitor out of the echoing throne room.

* * *

[End of Chapter 1: Scene 2 of 3]

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Notes:

1. I've expanded on my Glossary of Underland just for Furniture Master Symon Setteeson. The glossary is available on my homepage. See my author's profile for the link. (^_~)


	129. Book 4, A New Champion, 3 of 3

_**Chapter One: A New Champion  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

_A muttermongin'_, Setteeson had said.

And a muttermongin' is right!

Even now, her ears are still ringing with it. Even now her head is still spinning at her mother's agreement on the action to be taken. Even now her heart is pounding at the thought of herself – Champion Tarra of Mamoreal – Out There.

She claps one hand over the broadsword at her hip, throws the other wide and, grinning up at the ceiling in her room, spins until she's dizzy and breathless.

_Her first task as Champion!_

She is gloriously overwhelmed by the thought of it! So what if Leif had grumbled and grouched and glared through the entire discussion. So what if he'd insisted she lacks experience and finesse for something like this. So what if he'd roared that she isn't strong enough to handle her own sword in a _real _fight. So what if he'd been a right bastard about the whole thing instead of congratulating her.

So. What.

The king and queen and the head of the guard had all agreed: Tarra will be responsible for discovering the truth behind these rumors, this gossip Master Craftsman Setteeson had brought them.

They had all agreed on who will investigate these whisperings: _Tarra._

_Champion Tarra._

She is barely able to contain her shout of triumph. But contain it, she does. For now, anyway.

_Where to go? What to do?_

Sleep is impossible. Totally impossible. All she can think of is where she'll be this time tomorrow and the role she'll be playing and the disguise she'll be wearing and the task she'll be responsible for and it will be _her Moment!_

And she's going to _take it!_

This is an opportunity beyond even her wildest dreams. Tarra won't be proving herself here at Mamoreal with one of her sister's suitors on the pitch, as she'd always expected. No, her first test will be a Real one. Out There.

And then there will be no reason _at all _for her mother to refuse to hear her vows.

Tarra is pure jubilation.

She wishes she could share this with someone, but her mother had only grudgingly agreed and her father had smiled serenely and reminded her that this assignment must be kept Confidential. And besides, she is to gather information _only._

"This is a secret, not a battle, squimkin," her father had said and she hadn't even minded the childhood nickname in the wake of their Royal Decree. She'd been too numb with shock to object or even wince. As her mind had begun to absorb the gravity of the task before her, she'd smiled; she'd turned toward Leif; and she'd meet a hard mask of disapproval.

"Blasted, bothersome, boy-lion!" she growls to the four walls of her room. Why couldn't he have been happy for her? Why couldn't he have congratulated her? He should have! He's her friend, curse it all! Or, he _had _been... until Mistress Alice had started training her to be a Champion.

What had happened? Why had he suddenly changed?

Tarra is tired of wondering about that.

She's tired of thinking about it.

She's _sick _of waiting for him to flibbin' _grow UP!_

_He _insists that she's not ready for this job. _He _still thinks of her as a child with nothing more important to do with her time than climb trees, _talk to wooden swords, and __**host tea parties barefoot!**_

"I'm a grown woman," Tarra says, catching her reflection in the mirror. "I'm more grown up than _you _are." She's proud of her sneer. It looks intimidating. It looks like Mistress Alice's.

Mistress Alice. Yes. What _would _her mentor do on the eve of a monumentally epic task like this? Would she stand around in her Champion's uniform, thinking about a stupid male and sneering at a looking glass?

No. She wouldn't. Definitely not!

Why, as Muchy as Mistress Alice is, she'd march right over to Leif's room and she'd...! She'd...!

Tarra scowls at her reflection. "She'd do... Something."

Oh, undoubtedly.

"You're leaving tomorrow," she reminds herself. "Don't know when you'll be back. Anything could happen in the meantime..."

Anything at all!

Tarra pivots on her heel and strides for the door. She passes only one frog footman – Marshing – on the way and then, arriving at the door to Leif's rooms, her breath puffing in slight pants from her determination, she lifts her fist and _bangs _on the door.

It opens after only a moment and Leif's worried frown lifts into a delighted smile. And then, as he takes in the fact that she stands before him as a Champion, he scowls.

"Shouldn't you be in bed, princess?" he growls.

She grits her teeth. "I figured I'd give you one more chance to pull you head out from the hole under your tail and congratulate me. Maybe even wish me luck."

"Luck?" he snarls, leaning toward her and giving her the Grin of his kind, sharp incisors and all. "If you've any skill _at all_ – which I doubt – you won't need _luck._"

"You rotten, insufferable _kitten_," she sneers, glad that she'd practiced it earlier. "I'm the Queen's Champion!"

He leans back, towers over her, looks down his furry nose at her, and shakes his head. Sighs. "You're a princess, Tarranya. It's time you stopped playing dress up and accepted that."

She's mad enough to kick him. She considers it. Then decides that while it would be _really _satisfying, she won't. She won't give him the satisfaction of seeing her all riled up. She calls upon the control Mistress Alice had taught her and informs him, "Perhaps you haven't noticed, but these aren't Champion Alice's clothes. They're mine. This is _my _uniform now. I know you're old and set in your ways but you _could _make an effort to get used to it."

"And why would I do that? You realize this is a farce, don't you? The queen is never going to permit you to take your vows. She's just giving you what you _think_ you want, showing you the reality of it and, _yes_, the reality is boring and monotonous!"

"And _exciting_ and _heroic!_" she shouts back. "You can't lie to me – I know you've fought before and I know Mistress Alice has fought _lots _of times!"

Leif considers her. "Yes, we've both fought. And Lady Hightopp has even killed. Did she ever tell you what that's like? To take a life? Did she ever tell you what it feels like to offer up your own life for your king or queen? Did she ever explain _those_ things to you?"

She had, but Tarra doesn't want to hear it all again. That's not why she's here. She snorts. "Yes. And I understood every word—"

"I doubt _that._"

"—but _you're_ the one who just doesn't _get _it, Leif," she continues, blithely poking him in his furry, muscular chest. "I _will _do this. You and your temper tantrums can't stop me."

"Temper tantrums? You're one to talk." His gaze flickers down to the sword at her hip. "Carrying that around with you like it's the steel incarnation of Barnaby the Blade."

She strikes out. Surprisingly, it's not a slap she delivers to his cheek nor a fist to his jaw. No, Tarra surprises _herself _by thrusting her hand into his mane and pulling herself up until she presses her lips against his snarl.

And then, in the next instant, she is so _furious_ she can't _not _step back and smack him.

The sound of the blow echoes down the corridor. She barely notices his startled and furious expression.

"You kit of a bald Bandersnatch," she curses him. Damn him for making their first kiss happen _like this!_ _Damn him for __**ruining**__ it!_ "I'm leaving in the morning. If I'm as incompetent as you think, this'll be the last time you ever see me. Because I'm foolish enough to get myself killed, aren't I?" She damns herself as her vision heats and his image blurs. Damn it, she will _**not**_ _cry!_

She'd like to say more, but she can't.

With a shake of her head, she turns away. She doesn't even feel the need to tell him good-bye. Somehow she knows it just wouldn't be... right. Maybe because she doesn't know who she'd be saying good-bye to. Her friend – _her Leif_ – had disappeared months and months ago, damn him.

"Tarra..."

The sound of her name whispers against the cool stones. A strong, furry hand curls around her arm, turns her around. She fights him: he is not _allowed_ to see her cry!

"Le—! Let—mego!" she coughs around an army of tears.

"Damn you, Tarra," he growls. "Why are you doing this?"

She gapes at him, at the utter nonsense of the question.

He closes his beautiful, golden eyes, leans toward her and presses a whispery, whiskery kiss to her forehead. Just as he had done when she was younger, a little girl sitting on his knee or being swung around in his arms or being tickled under her chin...

"Damn _you_," she hisses, jerking back. "I am _not_ a child!" With rough motions, she shrugs off his hands. "I'm a grown woman, Leif, and I don't need you trying to protect me anymore. Not from the monsters in the wardrobe. Not from an opponent on the battlefield."

She struggles not to unleash the full extent of her fury and confusion and disappointment upon him. These things are hers and she'll keep them. He doesn't deserve them. Besides, she fights better on a full temper.

"I've grown up," she reminds him. "Get. Used. To. It."

And with that, she quits. She quits his doorway, his corridor, him.

She storms back the way she'd come, fuming. Leif is never going to _see _her as she is. He's never going to _not _see a little girl with wrinkled ribbons and blades of grass in her long, pale hair. He's never going to see her with her shoes on and breeches in the place of petticoats and a sharpened blade in the place of a wooden sword at her side.

To Leif, she's nothing but a foolish little girl.

And she's tired of trying to prove that she's not.

One day, he'll realize the truth.

Yes, one day, he'll _see._

Of course, when that day comes, it'll be too late.

Because she's already given up on him.

* * *

[End of Chapter 1]

* * *

Notes:

1. Yes, there are a lot of original characters in this story. However, I have not forgotten about Alice and Tarrant and we will see how their relationship grows and changes under these new circumstances.


	130. Book 4, Occasions for Traveling, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Two: Occasions for Traveling  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

Tarrant opens his eyes when something tickles his nose and the weight on his chest prevents him from gathering enough air for a good snort. He blinks, lifts his head from something that's definitely _not _his usual pillow, glances down the length of his body and encounters Alice's tangled hair in his direct line of sight. She's fast asleep, her head pillowed on her arms which are folded over his chest. She lies against the length of him, her legs between his own on the wide sofa in his new workroom in their Iplam manor.

For a moment, he is at a loss as to why they hadn't gone to bed the night before. He surveys himself and Alice – both of them are fully clothed so it can't be that they'd...! No, no, of course not! Well... not _here_, in any case! – and then he remembers:

A suit fitting...

A dress altering...

A bit of brushing up on their Upland waltzes...

A glass of Witzend wine and a promise to go to bed in just one more minute...

Tarrant smiles. His right hand is in Alice's hair and his left is across her shoulders and his right leg has gone stubbornly to sleep and life, in this moment, is utterly Beautiful!

"Eugh. You two are... just..."

On his chest, Alice stirs but doesn't wake. Tarrant looks up in the direction of the open doorway and grins at his son. "Shush. Don'wake yer Mam."

Tamial rolls his Orashlach-colored eyes. (Alice calls the color "cognac," oddly enough... Whatever odd Uplandish thing a cognac is...) "I'm hungry," their son announces. "What time are we leaving?"

"When it's Time to leave," Tarrant replies.

"So I should feed myself, right?"

"That might be wise. I'm currently... occupied," he murmurs, stifling a giggle at the joke. No, not _pre_occupied but _Occupied._ A state of being he rather enjoys when it's Alice who Occupies his person.

Tam snorts. "I know. At least you're both wearing clothes this time." And with a visible and obviously exaggerated shudder, their thirteen-year-old son slouches down the hall and into the small, attached kitchen.

"Did our son," Alice mumbles against his chest, her eyes still closed, "just imply that he's seen us naked?"

"I believe he did, love," Tarrant answers, kissing the top of her head.

"Disturbing. Don' wanna think abou' it."

"Then, by all means, don't, Raven."

"Mm. All right."

Tarrant does his best not to laugh. Truly, Alice is unfailingly amusing before her first cuppa. Unfortunately, these days, that is the _only _time his Alice is amusing. At all others he can feel the weight of her listless dissatisfaction. He hates that he's done this to her. He hates that he cannot undo it. He hates that he can only distract her with trifles – morning duels and shared baths and herbal teas and aerial snap dragonfly shows at dusk – rather than offering her a true solution.

He sighs. For over a month, he has suspected that this move had been a mistake. And not only because of Alice's discontentment with the daylight hours. Tam had been very upset to leave his friends behind in Mamoreal. But Tam is thirteen years old and _still_ un-apprenticed at anything! True, there aren't many opportunities in Mamoreal what with the queen and the courtiers demanding the very best and as quickly as possible. The artisans residing there have no time for leisurely instructings and the customers have no patience for amateurish attempts. It's time for Tam to consider a trade. Long past time. And as their son has never expressed any sort of interest in providing a service for the king and queen and the royal court, Tarrant had determined that his son's future must be found by a different route. Why not the one to Iplam?

Still, he wishes his wife and son would have taken to this new life... easier. For Tarrant, it's more responsibility – as The Hightopp, he is the government of this little cluster of people who have yet to become a Village. For Alice, it's less – she no longer protects the queen or her children and, with that weight removed from her shoulders, sometimes Tarrant fears she'll float away. For Tam, it's more boredom as there are no children here his age. And also it's harder work: there are gardens and orchards and winevines to tend to and sheep that demand regular coat trimmings and chickens that squabble over who has laid the biggest egg of the day and...

Yes, the world is much... _smaller_ here than it is in Mamoreal. Perhaps it is too small for Alice. Too small for Tam.

Perhaps he ought to send them to Salazen Grum – _No, no! It's called Crimson Harbor now!_ he corrects himself – and perhaps _there _Alice might be happier; Tam might take a liking to a trade...

"You're worrying again," Alice mutters on a sigh.

"So sorry. Habit, you know."

Alice lifts her head and stabs her chin into his breastbone. "A new one," she accuses, opening her eyes just as he winces. "You're worrying _and _plotting."

There's no use denying it. "I suppose I was."

Thankfully, she removes her chin from his chest and even, very considerately, shifts her weight off of the inside of his right leg. "And just what were you scheming and why?"

He studies his wife's face. How far will he go – _can _he go – to make her happy again? Can he _let _her go, if that's what it takes? Can he be the man he must be here in Hightopp Village without her by his side? Or will he fade, fall into gray days again, waiting for her to return to him or waiting for someone to release him from his obligations?

"I'm looking forward to visiting Upland," he declares.

Alice quirks a brow, alerting him to the fact that she'd noticed the Deliberate Change of Topic. "I'm still surprised to hear those words come out of your mouth," she informs him, letting the original subject go... for now.

Tarrant relaxes and shifts gingerly – despite the lack of actual ginger; those will be a bit late this year – and winces as life begins to tingle and sting back into his leg.

"Why-ever would you, Raven? That Upland London _is_ a rather interesting place. At times."

"Yes, especially when you're off with Hamish, making trouble."

"Alice..." he sighs with weary tolerance. "There is no _making _involved. Perhaps a bit of inadvertent _finding_ or maybe a smidgeon of _dusting off_ or—"

Alice presses a finger to his lips.

"Thank you," he mumbles.

Her lips curve into a knowing grin. "We can't have you incriminating Hamish. Margaret's quite strict with him."

"Yes, poor fellow. Why, the way he lets loose when we visit would suggest she never lets the chap have any fun at all."

Alice snorts. "Listen to you. Switching gears already to London speak?"

He waggles his brows. "Do you really think there are gears up here?" He lifts the arm that he'd draped across her shoulders at some point during the night at taps his temple with his fingertips.

"There must be, otherwise how could you call Hamish a 'chap' one instant and manage a rhyme the next?"

"That is an excellent point, my Alice."

"If the point Alice has excellently made is that there seems to be a suspicious lack of tea, then I wholeheartedly agree!"

Tarrant sighs. Alice looks up at the cat that is no doubt hovering directly and irritatingly over his head, and replies, "Chessur, didn't we recently have a discussion about the courtesy of _knocking_ before entering a residence?"

"Oh, yes, we did, as I recall. But, if _you_ will recall, I objected on the grounds that I am never curt. Not unless it can be helped."

Had the observation been made by _anyone _else, Tarrant might have been amused. "_Courtesy. _'Tis _court_ no' _curt_, _Cat._"

"Oh, is it?" he replies in a too innocent tone. "I _do _beg your pardon! However, I'm sure you'll understand how wary even _I _am of courting a happily wed Lady. Now... about that _tea..._"

Alice snorts and sits up. "Subtle, Chessur. _Really _subtle."

"I try," he responds and, with a wink, evaporates.

"Bloody menace," Tarrant grumbles.

Alice raises her brows as she stands then reaches down a hand to help Tarrant up. "You know he only does it because he finds your ire so entertaining."

"There's no accounting for taste," he mutters.

"Of course there is. It comes from the ingredients and method of preparation!" she scolds him, sounding very much like Thackery in that moment. Tarrant sighs; he misses tea with Thackery. That mad March Hare is always good for a round of circuitous conversation and a bit of defensive ducking. Tarrant doesn't have much use for either in Iplam and he worries his skills may be getting dull.

He looks up when Alice lays a hand on his arm.

"We'll make a trip to Mamoreal after Margaret and Hamish's party. I'm sure Amallya would like to see you. You've still so much to teach her about haberdashery. And then there's those special orders..."

He nods. Yes, his apprentice, while _highly _skilled still has much to learn and Tarrant often takes the more challenging custom hat requests off of her hands. Once Hightopp Village has organized its marketplace satisfactorily and the trade caravans begin passing through, he'll be able to travel to Mamoreal more than once a week. Of course, at the rate Princess Amallya is learning the trade, he doubts she'll be needing his counsel for much longer.

"When I'm no longer needed at the castle," he declares, ushering Alice toward the door, "I think inventing would suit me." This is not the first time he has expressed this particular musing to Alice. However, she never fails to gift him with a delightfully unique response. This time is no different.

"A bit too well," Alice remarks. "You imagination might get carried away with you."

"If that happens, I hope you will revive your skills in my rescue or defense... whichever is needful."

Alice grins. "I suppose I shall have to. What sort of inventions are tickling your fancy at the moment?"

"I've only a vague notion," he admits, "but I should like to make a hat that would be useful for something other than fashion, rain, sun, and wind."

Alice rubs his shoulder. "I'm looking forward to this miracle hat already, Raven."

They stop in the hallway, as if by silent and mutual agreement, and Tarrant presses a soft kiss to her lips. "I am looking forward to hatting you in it," he murmurs.

She smiles and he leans toward her again...

"No, no, no! That's most definitely _not _the way tea is prepared!" Chessur yowls.

Tarrant freezes.

Alice tenses.

"Yes, it is. This is exactly the way I've seen Fa do it every single day!"

"I _highly _doubt there are borogove toenails in Iplam Breakfast Blend," Chessur asserts with an audible sniff of derision.

Tarrant turns his head away from the kitchen doorway just down the hall at the touch of his wife's hand against his cheek.

"You know that's just a ploy to get us to make it for them," Alice murmurs, rising up on the balls of her feet to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Aye. We're onteh their tricks," he agrees, moving against her as her hands settle on his hips.

"Bah! I _told _you not to add those vile, rancid things!"

Alice pulls away and sniffs the air. She winces and sputters. "Or... perhaps not."

"Perhaps," he concurs, fighting the urge to gag at the stench.

Chessur executes a very authentic rant: "Yet again, the next generation utterly _mutilates_ Time-honored traditions out of ignorance and hubris!"

"Well, _you _could have made it yourself! Didn't want to get your paws dirty, Chess?"

Alice sighs.

"Aye, we'd better see teh that."

"You go first. You duck faster than I do."

He chuckles. "And I could use the practice."

They brave the kitchen, point Tam and Chessur to out-of-the-way chairs, open the windows and address the abused the teapot.

"We'll never get the taste out of this clay," Tarrant mutters, nodding for Alice to take it Away, which she does while he starts with a fresh pot and _no_ borogove toenails. "These," he educates his son while Chessur looks on smugly, "are for the Batten bushes. In the garden. To keep the bread-and-butter flies away."

Tam sulks and Chessur grins.

Even though tea hasn't been served yet, Alice begins her lecture. "Now, Chess. While we're gone, we expect you to keep an eye on things—"

"Yes, yes, sit in the village and watch. Watching the village sit. Village-sitting," Tarrant interjects with a giggling snort. Alice playfully pinches his elbow for interrupting her. He doesn't apologize.

The do's and do-not's are explained and Chessur is sworn not to cause mischief and then after a frantic half hour of bathing and hectic packing, Tarrant finds himself regarding the large mirror in the manor's hat workshop. In its non-reflective surface, they can see Alice's older sister sitting in an armchair in Hamish's private study. Waiting patiently.

Tarrant watches his wife and then his son step through. And just as he collects their small trunk, he pauses, straightens, looks Chessur in the eye and declares, "And _no _jabberwockies!"

The cat looks rather disappointed at that rule and Tarrant can't stop himself from smirking in reply before he steps through the looking glass.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2: Scene 1 of 3]


	131. Book 4, Occasions for Traveling, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Two: Occasions for Traveling  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

Tamial Hightopp – forlorn and down-trodden, once-was champion of the Futterwhacken – sighs dramatically as he takes in the scene before him.

His Mam is exclaiming over Aunt Margaret's needlework stuff in a tone even _he _knows is totally false. You'd think Aunt Margaret would realize...

He shakes his head and huffs. Grown ups.

His Fa is nodding thoughtfully as Uncle Hamish demonstrates the correct posture for a croquet swing. Tam rolls his eyes. "Fa doesn't even _play _croquet," he grumbles.

"I'm sure it's all a secret code."

"For what?" he asks, turning toward his dark-haired cousin, Winslow.

The taller boy leans in and confides, "Fencing."

"Fencing?" Tam is confused. "What about it?"

"Mother doesn't want him to do it anymore. She says he's too fat."

Tam evaluates his uncle's form. "Well, he is..."

"So he _says _he's taken up croquet, but..."

Tam smirks. "You think he goes fencing when he's supposed to be at the playing field?"

"Got it in one."

"Should I ask him what his score is?"

"Or maybe to see his croquet stick? I bet it's as new as the day he bought it."

"Why hasn't your mother noticed yet?"

Win shrugs. "Grown ups." It's both an explanation and a curse.

They snort with humor.

"What're you laughing about?"

Win sighs. "Nothing, Townley."

"You _always_ say that!" the younger boy protests. "But when Elaine asks, you always tell _her!_"

"All right, what's going on over here? What are you keeping from Lee _this time_?" a girl with carrot-orange ringlets demands.

Tam goggles. "You're bossier every time I see you, Laney."

"Thank you. Now, Win, _what _are you on about?"

"Just a stupid croquet stick," he informs her reluctantly.

"Well, that _does _sound pretty stupid," she agrees, crossing her arms.

"Why couldn't you just _tell _me that?" Lee whines.

Win throws his hands up and shakes his head. He leans down to pick up Tam's travel bag. "Come on, Tam. Let's go see if Lucinda's finished with your room yet."

They leave the stuffy, crowded room and the moment the door closes behind them, they blaze a path for the stairs. "Come on!" Win declares, dumping Tam's bag in his room and gesturing for him to keep up. They climb another flight up to the attic floor of the grand country estate and tromp into a small, modest parlor.

"Look out there," Win directs him, pointing to the window. Tam does. Far below and across the lawn, people are setting up a dance floor and streamers and canvas pavilions.

"That's for the party tonight?" he guesses.

Win nods and a wistful grin stretches his mouth wide. "Chef's cooking for it. Something special." He closes his eyes in abject anticipation. "I can only _imagine..._"

Tamial Hightopp – the most menacing mischief maker in all of Underland... and now Upland! – grins. "You wanna find out?"

Win opens his brown eyes and grins. "What do you have in mind?"

Tam waggles his brows – tamer than his Fa's after he'd had a word or two with them about _not _growing wild – and invites, "Follow me!"

Fifteen minutes later, stolen and squished chunks of sticky sweet bread in hand, the pair take refuge from the chef's wrath by the pond behind the stables. They giggle over their near misses from that rolling pin swinging hoyden and try to outdo each other in making sugary messes all over their hands and faces.

Win leans back on his elbows and declares, "I'm glad you're visiting again. It's so _dull_ with just Laney and Lee out here. I can't wait to go back to the city."

"What about your lessons?" Tam asks. He'd actually been surprised to find that he'd missed his teacher – stuffy Master Fenruffle – back in Mamoreal. And, well, _of course _he misses his two best friends. He wonders if the little, lost rath Ian had found in the forest near the castle is doing all right. Toves can leave nasty scrapes, he knows. And he wonders what Lanny's doing now, if Thackery's counted the jars of compote. Tam shakes his head at the thought of Lan's sweets hoard...

"Lessons!" Win scoffs. "Boring. Pointless. Why do I need to waste my time learning French or Maths or Geography? Everybody knows I'm going to be joining the company just as soon as I'm old enough."

Tam frowns. "But wouldn't all that stuff be useful for a trader?"

Win sighs heavily. "It would. But I'm not joining _that _company. I'll be taking my father's old position."

"Says who?"

"Grandfather Manchester." Win scowls and begins picking apart the remains of his spoils from the kitchen. "In about five years, I'll be old enough to be an apprentice. Making pots and pans and tea kettles. Wonderful. So exciting."

"My Fa would get pretty excited about tea kettles, actually."

"Well, but that's because he's mad."

"True." Tam squints into the water as Win chucks a piece of bread at it. One of the Ascots' fat, boringly colored ducks paddles over and gobbles up the soggy morsel. "Fa wants me to enter a trade."

"But you're only _my_ age!"

He shrugs and contemplates the remains of his own half-loaf. Despite the hollow feeling in his stomach, it no longer looks appealing. "I know. But that's the way it is... there."

"In Underland, you mean?"

Tam nods.

Win tosses another bit of bread toward the ducks, which scramble and squabble over it. "I wish we could change places," he announces. "I'd give anything to do something really _interesting _like be a champion like Aunt Alice. Or maybe a horsemaster like... who was it again?"

"Prince Chestor."

"Yes. Prince Chestor. Or even a courtier! I'd make a rather dashing courtier, I think!"

Tam snorts and giggles. "Sure. You'd have to wear a white wig though."

"What for?"

"Well, it's called the White Court for a reason, isn't it?"

Win considers this seriously for a moment and then shrugs. "We'd make our own court! No wigs allowed."

"Eat whatever we want..."

"Ride around Underland looking for adventure..."

"Have sword fights and do away with villains!" Tam tosses a corner of bread crust at the ducks. "Sounds great, doesn't it?"

When Win doesn't answer, he looks over his shoulder. His cousin is frowning so fiercely Tam wonders if he's about to cry. "Win?"

"No, _that _part doesn't sound great at all."

"Which one?" It had all sounded pretty epic to Tam.

Win rolls up into a sitting position and mutters, "Can you keep a secret?"

"Of course. I'll put right here in my pocket."

Tam's attempt at levity is not met with amusement. And, considering what his cousin has to say next, that's completely understandable.

Win leans closer and whispers, "I received a letter just before we left the city."

"And? What did it say?"

Win glances over his shoulder, scanning the grounds to ensure that they're both still alone. He wipes his hand on the grass and reaches into his jacket. Without a word, he hands a large, cream-colored envelop to Tam who opens it warily.

Two carefully folded pages from a newspaper, yellowed nearly to brown with age, slide out first. He scans the first, reads something about a gentleman's duel.

"Win... does this say _Uncle Hamish_ and your _father_ actually _dueled?_"

"No, actually, it _suggests _that they might have."

Tam continues gaping at him.

Win finally snorts with humor. "It _is_ hard to imagine, isn't it? But look at the date."

Tam does. "Oh, well, I guess eleven years ago, he wasn't so..."

"Fat?"

He bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Win points to the next page. "Now that one."

Tam obediently scans it until he sees what must have upset Win so much. "Oh..." In one small article, the death of Lord Marshall Manchester's only son – Lowell Manchester – is recorded. "I'm sorry, Win."

"Look at the date."

Tam does so. And then, frowning, he checks the date on the other newspaper again. "Is this... _right?_"

"Yes. I went to the archives in town and checked them myself."

Tam gapes. "But, that would mean that... I mean. Do you think Uncle Hamish...?"

"Read the note."

Tam pulls it out of the envelope and flips open the cardstock.

Reads.

"When we go get back in the city, I'm going to talk to him," Win announces.

Tam nods. "All right. But I'm coming with you."

"But how are you going to convince your mother and father to let you stay in London?"

"It doesn't matter. Do you really think I'll let you go alone no matter what they say?"

His cousin slaps him on the back, a brave smile on his lips. "Good man."

"The best," Tam assures him. Yes, this looks like a task well-suited to Tamial Hightopp – investigator extraordinaire and champion to his Uplander cousin! He replaces the newspapers and note in the envelop and hands them back to Win. "Have you looked over the meeting place yet?"

"Why would I do that?"

Tam rolls eyes, abandons the uneaten hunk of sticky bread and stands. "Well, maybe I'm not a champion like my Mam, but even _I _know you can't just walk into a situation like this without knowing the terrain. That's the first order of business!"

"But... we can't very well go there _now_."

"No, we can't. But we can check a few maps, can't we?" Tam grins and waggles his brows. Adventure, he decides, tastes _good._ "Let's be off to the library!"

"And we'd better not let anyone catch us, or there'll be questions!" Win warns him.

And as they race across the lawn, ignored by the servants and hired workers, Tam considers that note:

_Clarges Street and Bolton E. off Piccadilly_

_If you want to know the truth of your father's death, come alone._

Despite his taste for Adventure, Tamial frowns. The Adventure he likes, but the message itself... He swallows back against the sour taste of something _bad _in his throat. That hollow feeling in his stomach is back but he's not hungry. It's not a pleasant feeling. No. Not at all.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2: Scene 2 of 3]


	132. Book 4, Occasions for Traveling, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Two: Occasions for Traveling  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Mirana takes in the sight of her second eldest daughter – her short hair now colored a most unflattering brown; her lithe figure dressed in the common garb of an apprentice to an Outlandish tradesman – as she descends the stairs with a grubby pack slung over her shoulder and a wide smile stretching her lips.

Mirana takes in the sight of the young woman who is moments away from setting out on her own. She fists her hands in her dress to keep her panic and denial in check: it's not supposed to happen this way! She and Alice had _prepared...!_ They'd _anticipated...!_ And yet, somehow, her daughter will be leaving home today on her first assignment. Her first task. Her first confrontation with Fates and whatever those fickle beings have planned for her.

_It's utterly unfair!_ she rages in silence. Her vows – her intentions which have always been of the purest sort! – mean nothing now. No, the Fates care not that Mirana has never harmed another living creature. Underland's caretakers torment the White Queen with this sight!

Tarranya is going off to fight. Yes, Dale had assured her – and firmly reminded Tarra! – that there will be no battles. No swordplay. No bloodshed. But that does not mean there will be no danger! There are innumerable evils Out There that can slip past even the tightest defense and the sharpest sword!

"Who _is _that?" Dale asks in a teasing tone that somehow rings with pride. He lays a paw on Mirana's shoulder, reminds her of their conversation earlier:

_"We knew this day would come, Mish'rya. For Tarra first and foremost among each of our loves."_

_"Yes, I know. She's always been the most headstrong."_

_"I sometimes wonder if perhaps we should have named her for Champion Alice what with that stubbornness of hers..."_

_"It might have been more fitting... Too late now."_

_"But, let us not dwell on what we are losing. We must consider what our daughter is gaining. We must let her go, my love. And, if it comes to it, we must let her fail. We cannot protect her forever."_

Yes, Mirana knows this is true. It doesn't help, however. Still, she does her best to manage a teasing reply. "I'm not sure. Perhaps we'd better summon the guards to deal with this infiltrator."

Tarra barks out a laugh. "Go ahead, Your Majesty! I can take them down!"

She strikes a pose on the stairs and Mirana startles, noticing that _somehow_ a pair of wicked-looking knives have appeared in each of her daughter's scarless hands.

No, her daughter has not yet earned any scars, not like Alice has.

Alice... Had Alice really been only a year Tarra's senior when she'd become Mirana's Champion? When Mirana had more or less _forced_ Alice to become her Champion? Had Mirana not sent McTwisp Up to lure her Under? Had she not more or less insinuated to Alice that the only way back to her world would be through the path that lead to a fearsome beast, a slaying, and the drinking of its cursed blood?

Her vocal chords twist until her breath whistles out of her. She will chastise herself for this later. Perhaps she will even ask Tarrant to suggest a proper punishment... Later. For now, her daughter demands her attention.

"You look like a common thug," Alicibeth informs her twin.

Tarra struts down the remaining steps. "Thanks, Bethie. But now you've got me wondering: how many common thugs _have _you seen?"

"Humph!"

Smirking, Tarra turns toward her brother. "Chestor, don't go tearing up the pitch on Winsommer while I'm away or I'll skin you with Thackery's rusty carrot peeler."

He cringes a bit before rallying. "You just try it, and we'll see who gets hacked in the end."

Tarra grins and ruffles his hair before he can bat her hands away. "Amallya," she continues, regarding the Hatter's apprentice. Mirana has sensed that the connection between these two has strengthened over the last two years as they'd both raised their voices and asserted themselves, presented themselves for their destinies with singular focus.

"I made you a hat," Mirana's third daughter says, revealing the accessory from where she'd been holding it behind her back. As always, Mirana examines her daughter's hands for traces of mercury stains, but they are as pale and flawless as ever; the special gloves Tarrant had fashioned just for her daughter seem to be doing their job sufficiently.

Well, at least _one _of her obstinate and independently-minded daughters will be spared the hardships of her chosen profession!

"I love it, Ama. Here, what do you think?" she asks, modeling it.

"You suit it just fine," Amallya informs her. "Even with that dreadful hair dye."

"It's the color of manure," Leivlan informs her.

Dalerian smirks. "Should have told us you wanted dye made from excrement. We could have asked the Bandersnatch for a contribution and then you'd be aromatic, too."

"I'll keep that in mind," Tarra teases back. "I know exactly who to go to for some good shukm. Know the ins and outs of it, do you boys?"

"Ew," Thacie groans. "I just _ate!_"

"Sorry, Thrasher."

"That's not my name and you know it."

"Yes, I definitely do... _Thrasher_."

"Well," Mirana says, judging this to be the optimal moment to interrupt. Before Tarra ends up having to _fight_ her way to the front door and the Outlander waiting patiently beside it to take her to Crimson Harbor. "Now that you've offended most of your family..."

"Yes, time to be off!" Tarra pivots on her heel and takes a step toward the door. "Maybe I'll bring you back some nice, cured eel snout for a treat!"

"Ugh, _gross!_" Thacie objects as Alicibeth sniffs contemptuously. Chestor makes a face, Amallya continues gazing dreamily up at the ceiling as if watching a vision of her next creation flutter and float down from the rafters. The twin boys grin.

"Go on," Ian says.

"We dare you," Lanny interjects.

"We'll put them to _good _use."

And _that_ is surely a thought that will keep Mirana up at night! She tugs on Dale's arm and the two of them follow after Tarra, escorting her through the hall and out onto the castle steps.

"You're going to hug me, aren't you?" Tarra mumbles. "Out here in front of _everybody_."

"Of course. I _am_ your mother." She makes a show of looking around, shading her tearing eyes from the early morning sun. "And _I _don't seen anyone watching us. Just you, me, your father, and the trees."

"And I'd bet a half batch of Upelkuchen on which ones are the gossips of the lot," Tarra grumbles, glaring at the tranquil sea of blossoming trees.

Mirana pulls her daughter into her arms and Holds On. "No heroine-ics, you hear me?" she rasps into Tarra's ear. "You find out what you need to and come _home._"

She nearly sobs when she feels Tarra gently pat her back. "You're awfully authoritative. One might even think you're a queen or something by the way you act."

"Hah!" Mirana laughs. "I'm afraid I'm much worse; I'm a mother."

"Give me a dragon to slay any day."

"All right, all right, my fair ladies! It's not polite to share affection in public unless you've enough for _everyone_," Dale teases and wraps his long, heavy, pelted arms around them both.

"You're both acting ridiculous," Tarra informs them. "I'll be fine and I'll be back before you know it!"

Despite her daughter's confident tone and brazen grin, Mirana shivers.

A throat clears and Mirana turns to see Master Setteeson approaching. "I d'nae wish tae b' a-gimblin' in, bu' if'n we're teh make th' 'Arbor afore dusk, we'd best b' a-trekkin'."

"Of course," Mirana replies. "Of course."

Her hands shake as she releases her daughter.

_Dear Fates..._ Mirana can hardly believe that this moment has arrived. Her child is about to walk out into the wide world and she is she merely going to stand here and _do nothing?_

Dale wraps an arm around her waist – to hold her up or restrain her from running after Tarra and dragging her bodily back to the castle, she's not sure.

"Stay safe, Squimkin. Don't give us reason to worry," he says as Mirana struggles with herself, her panic, her dread, her useless tongue and inflamed heart.

"I'll be just fine." She tilts her chin and adjusts her new hat to a rakish angle. "And I'm going to give you both a reason to be proud of me."

"We already are, you silly berry," her father answers, chucking her under her chin.

"Master Setteeson! I'm mightae humblin' fer th'delayin'. Off we b' a-trekkin' nauw?" Tarra asks in a startlingly authentic rendition of Outlandish.

The bearded and bellied mad chuckles. "Aye, off we be. Yer Majesty."

Mirana manages a nod of acknowledgement in his direction and then watches as they turn to go. Tarra takes two steps down the stairs before Mirana suddenly realizes that someone is _missing!_

"Wait! We must inform Champion Leif that you're leaving!"

Tarra pauses on the steps but doesn't turn. Her right hand fists and Mirana watches as she takes a deep, controlled breath. When her daughter turns, whatever emotion that had been evoked by the mention of her long-time friend is gone.

"It's all right, mother. We've already said our good-byes."

And then she jogs down the steps and catches up with the man Mirana is entrusting with her daughter's care. It's not until the two of them have gathered up their packs, convinced Setteeson's grumpy donkey to consent to pull the cart, and have disappeared beyond the far gate that Mirana recognizes the odd, uncomfortable resonance vibrating in her chest.

_"We've already said our good-byes."_

She's heard that before.

And, in a rush of epiphany, remembers when and where!

Why, those words had been spoken _here._ Twenty years ago, by another Champion setting out on a quest. And those very words had been spoken with regards to that Champion's future lover.

Mirana remembers: frighteningly similar words had been spoken shortly before Alice had galumphed off to meet the Jabberwocky for the Trial of Threes.

Dear Fates, she begs, let this _not _be a premonition.

_Let me have made the correct decision __**this**__ time!_

Of course, there is no answer. Not yet. For this, she must wait for Time to answer her plea.

* * *

[End of Chapter 2]


	133. Book 4, Sisters and Brothers, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Three: Sisterly Advice, Brotherly Differences  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

"So, _Lady_ Hightopp, how goes your new life?" Margaret asks with a smile reminiscent of the one Alice had been given at _another _party that had been held at the Ascot family's countryside manor. Yes, Alice knows that smile. That's the _I-know-you're-thrilled!_ smile. Well. It was monumentally misplaced _then…_ just as it is now.

Alice bites back a sigh. "It goes."

Margaret wraps an arm around Alice's waist and gives her a brief, brusque embrace. "Mother would be so proud."

Yes, that is true. Every time Alice had visited for tea, their mother had worried – usually in eloquent silence – over Alice's occupation. "I almost wish she were here to gloat," she replies.

"For shame, Alice," Margaret scolds her gently with a sad smile. "A well-bred lady never gloats."

"Hah. Tell that to your mother-in-law."

"Once upon a time, I was very tempted to! But she hasn't been the same since..."

The sigh she'd stubbornly held back escapes Alice. "I miss him. This world isn't the same without him."

"No, it isn't," Margaret agrees. "It's hard on Hamish as well. After the duel, they grew quite close. I imagine Townsend was as thrilled by his son's manly display of idiocy as Geraldine was scandalized by it."

"A scandalized Geraldine Ascot," Alice muses. "Now, _that _I am sorry I missed."

"You shouldn't be!" Margaret hisses even as she smiles out across the milling assortment of predictably civilized, wine-swilling party guests.

Alice shakes her head at her. "Unbelievable," Alice tells her.

"What is?"

"How much this life suits you. Are you sure we're of the same flesh and blood?"

"Not at all. Perhaps my real sister was switched with you? Tell me, are there any uncommonly sensible women in this land of yours?"

"Not a single one. We're all mad there."

Nodding toward the scene of an impromptu picnic just to the side of the gazebo, Margaret argues, "But not Tamial. He's got a level head on his shoulders."

Alice has to bite her lip to keep from informing her sister that – in the frenzy of Futterwhacken – even _that _is subject to change. Although... Tam's head _has _been level for quite some time now. In fact, the last clear memory she has of his Futterwhacken had been the day she'd learned of Tarra and Leif's will-be marriage, the day Alice had invited Mirana to take tea at the hat workshop with Tarrant and Amallya... nearly a year ago. "He's simply better at adapting," she insists both in defense of his innate Underlandian madness and in denial of her son's lingering depression.

"Hm. Still, he and Winslow have always seemed to get along well enough. It's hard to believe Tamial's two years his junior."

Alice bites back yet another sigh. "Actually, he's come into young adulthood, or the _Midlin' Mark_ as Tarrant's people call it. He's thirteen."

Margaret frowns. "But... Alice... he was born _eleven _years ago."

"I'm not debating that." And she knows she _can't_. Time has been kept regular over the years with the aid of the small correspondence mirrors which have remained open, providing a connection between Up and Under. After the Oraculum had once again unrolled, after Alice and Tarrant had ensured Underland's safety and continued future, after Tam had been born and their reasons for remaining in London exhausted, there had been no reason to retire those small, silver mirrors from Official use. Alice had kept one and so had her mother. _Now_, however, that mirror is in Margaret's possession and has been for nearly four years.

So, yes, eleven years _have _passed – equally! – in Upland and Underland. Tam _should _be just entering his Age of Consideration. He _should _be just old enough to choose a trade for himself. He _should _be. But he isn't.

"It's not fair that he's grown up so suddenly," Alice replies. "I don't like it, but there's nothing to be done about it."

And she'd asked. Many times. She'd very nearly hunted down Time himself to demand he return those lost years to Tamial, to her and Tarrant. Of course, that would have only compounded the issue.

"Time has a frightful temper, Alice," Tarrant had said, his arms firmly wrapped around her waist even as she'd struggled. "And he'll not be forgetting just _whose _son Tamial is."

Alice had cursed at that.

"That's the last time we let Thackery watch Tam!"

Yes, one romantic bedtime story about the occasion during which Tam's father had killed Time in order to wait for the arrival of the White Queen's Champion had lead to an absolute disaster. The very next day, drunk on Chivalry, Tam – with his cohorts Ian and Lanny – had _chased down_ Time. Tam had been the only one fast enough to keep up and, before he'd known it, Time had taken Flight and two entire years had sped by him.

Mirana had once explained to Alice that although adults in Underland merely reflect the age they feel – a rather simple system all around – the growth of children in Underland is determined by quite a lot of factors: the steadiness and pace of their education; the expectations of their parents; their minds which seem to develop much less gradually than those of Upland children, lurching forward – and sometimes backwards! – in years in fits and starts; and also, there's the child's _desire_ or motivation to become a grown up. Tam, however, had found the _one _exception to the natural order of things: he'd provoked Time.

Like incorrigible father, like equally incorrigible son.

Alice fears there will be a Grudge now between the Hightopps and Time that will last until the end of Underland. To make it official, perhaps Alice ought to give the fellow a good smack across his ever-changing face!

She regards her son and mourns for those lost years: he'd been ten years old one day, and then twelve the next. Neither she nor Tarrant had felt additional punishment was necessary for the utter idiocy of meddling with Time. The facts of life had been more than sufficient in severity:

"You're going to have to choose a trade," Tarrant had explained to him firmly over high tea the day after the incident. "And you'll have to decide sooner than expected."

"But I can't help it if I'm twelve now!"

"'Twas yer own folly tha' brought ye teh this age ye're at, an' there's no undoin' it once Time's had his way wi'ye." Because Alice knows her husband inside and out, because he had made no effort at all to dampen the emotions within his heart, she had seen and Felt his regret. "'Tis tae late fer ye teh be-make yerself inteh a baker 'r a loomsmith..."

"I don't _want _to bake bread or make carpets!"

Which had been just as well. Tam had grown too big, too _set in his ways_, as Tarrant had explained it, for any _reputable_ masterof those crafts to take him on, to awaken, to mold and polish his Intuition in the intricacies of those particular trades.

They'd hashed out their son's remaining options: furniture maker, haberdasher, glass smith, mason, and – reluctantly – they'd suggested the life of a soldier for the White Queen! Tarrant had even swallowed his pride and offered to speak to the Irondirks about taking Tam on as a steelsmith.

Their son had refused them all.

Later that evening, as Tarrant had curled his body around hers in their bed at Mamoreal, he'd sighed out, "'Tis retribution. I was this difficult wi' me own Fa. Only ra'her than tryin' teh talk me _in teh_ a trade, he was doin' his best teh talk me _out _o'th' one I'd chosen."

_The poor man,_ Alice had thought, imagining the very scene Tarrant had described. However, she'd chosen to say instead, "It's a difficult age and he's come into it so suddenly and unexpectedly. And the expectations on him are greater now than ever before. Give him some time. He'll sort it out."

But Tamial is most definitely _not _sorting it out. His thirteen years weigh on him like an ill-fitting suit.

"Nothing to be done about it," she repeats, pulling herself back to the present: back to her sister and brother-in-law's tenth wedding anniversary party.

Margaret sighs. "Sometimes you have nothing but utter nonsense to say, Alice."

"I know." But she doesn't apologize for it. What would be the point? Nonsense is such an unavoidable part of her life that she's better off accepting it and moving onward.

"Some things never change," Margaret murmurs with a wistful sigh. "Here we are, so many years later, and I _still _envy you, little sister."

"I... wha... I beg your pardon?"

Margaret actually giggles as her sister's obviously flabbergasted expression. "Have you any notion of how _exciting _I imagine it is to start a new _town?_ Have you really _thought_ about it, Alice? Those people are _your _people. They depend on you and Tarrant completely."

"Oh. It's a marvelous responsibility," Alice hears herself intone.

Margaret clucks her tongue at her. "For shame, Alice. You've spent years in the service of your queen as her Champion. And now here you have this once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to champion a whole _town!_"

"I..."

"Darling, _here_ you are!"

Alice startles as Hamish – with Tarrant in tow – strides over. She marvels at how – despite her brother-in-law's increased weight which is surely indicative of wedded bliss and professional success – he still manages to move as purposefully as ever.

"They're ready for us to lead the dancing," he tells her, offering his arm. "Alice," he greets her with a nod. "I hope you're enjoying yourself."

"Quite. Thank you for the invitation." Somehow, the words come out despite her shock at Margaret's observation and her own dawning shame.

"We'll see you both on the dance floor," Margaret says with a wink as Hamish sweeps her toward the lit wooden platform. Yes, the words had been spoken in the format of an invitation, but Alice hears the underlying instruction. Suddenly, she smiles: there are some things that _will never_ change. Her sister's bossiness for one... and Alice's role as a Champion for another. Even if the cause for which she fights _does_ change.

_Margaret is right._

Alice shakes her head and sighs.

Tarrant moves to stand next to her here beside the looming hedges. "They make an uncommonly well-matched pair, do they not?" he murmurs, offering her a glass of wine and a curious glance; she knows he can feel the echo of her jumbled emotions churning over and around his own heart.

"Frightfully so," she answers with a smirk and decides – _firmly_ – to enjoy the party _now _and ponder _later_.

Her gaze darts in the direction of the nighttime picnic being held by their son and his cousin. "Those two as well."

"Hm. Yes." Tarrant's brows draw together in a frown. "I suppose the answer to the question we'll undoubtedly be asked before we leave on the morrow must be 'No'."

Alice sighs. "I'm afraid so." Undoubtedly, Tam will ask to stay here in Upland for a while longer. Unfortunately, to allow him to do so would merely encourage him to continue avoiding the decision he must make... _soon_. "He cannot start hiding from his problems."

"Although... I recall a time when that had been the wisest course of action."

"Luckily, we don't have a Red Queen to worry about these days."

"Luck or the Oraculum?" he muses aloud.

"Perhaps both," Alice admits. "But mostly the Oraculum." She glances at him and answers the question that raises both of his wild brows. "I'm not sure I could have put on the armor in the first place if not for the fact that my success had already been guaranteed."

"Alice..."

"Yes. If I had known _then_ what I know _now_ about the Oraculum... things very likely would have turned out... differently."

"Badly."

She doesn't disagree. The Oraculum _is _an oracle, true. But it shows what the denizens of Underland _need _to see in order to stay on the path the Fates have chosen for their world. Tarrant had uneasily told her this when she'd explained why she'd been so obsessed with timing the birth of their son as carefully as possible.

"Alice, the Oraculum is a _guide._ Why else would it show us your... defeat at the Trial of Threes and the destruction of Mamoreal if not to _warn _the queen that she had taken the wrong path?"

She had regarded his anxious, yellow-green eyes and pointed out: "The Oraculum also showed that I would be the one to defeat the Jabberwocky in the first place. Are you saying that was a self-fulfilling prophecy? My belief in its inevitability made it so?"

"That is the world we live in, Raven."

Alice had had to bite her tongue against cursing the Fates aloud.

"If... that is, if you would rather not create a child _here_... I mean, if you do not feel it would be _safe..._"

"Tarrant."

"Yes?"

"Do _you_ have any doubts?"

"... There are always doubts."

"Then sit down and confide them in me. Please."

He had. And then they had set a date for the Ritual of Conception. Before _that _memory can drag her into its depths, Alice lifts her glass and takes a sip.

"You're very distractable tonight," Tarrant observes.

"Intentionally. My experiences at Ascot parties are... mixed." And, considering Margaret's unerringly precise remarks only minutes ago, tonight is no exception.

"Oh?"

"Yes. Hamish proposed in that gazebo there..." she informs him, gesturing with her wine glass.

"Did he?"

"Right before I followed a very peevish-looking white rabbit into the forest and then took a tumble down a hole."

"Ah, yes. Those questions that needed answering."

She doesn't refute the assumption. "And of course you remember the last... occasion we attended an event here."

"... I do."

Alice lays a hand on his arm. "I miss him. Townsend."

Tarrant gives Alice a brief, sad smile. Her heart line warms with thanks at the distraction. She knows now what he had experienced that night; one afternoon, on a balcony overlooking the castle gardens, as they had watched Tam playing hide-and-seek with Mirana's twin boys, he had told her.

"You came looking for me... And Valereth ran you through."

For a moment, she hadn't understood what he'd been talking about. She'd turned to him and he'd replied even before she'd spoken.

"You told me to drink, to move through time." He'd looked at her then, showing her the pain in his eyes that he'd been holding onto so tightly she hadn't felt it through their heart line. "I did."

"Yes," she'd answered, at last understanding. "You did. Thank you."

She does not know the details of that night and the events that had prompted the use of the Jabberwocky's blood, but she knows _enough._ Enough to distract him from the memory.

"Lord Ascot was an uncommonly Underlandish Uplander," Tarrant observes.

Alice smiles. "He was. I believe knowing my father made him so. I wish you could have met him as well."

"It would have been an honor," he agrees. "But I am happy to have met your mother. You do her credit, you know. It is from her you draw much of your Muchness."

Alice startles and looks up at his knowing expression. "I... you're right. She was rather... muchy, wasn't she?"

"And I'm sure she still is, my Alice."

Grinning, Alice blinks back her tears. "As usual, you are right."

"_We_ are right," he gently corrects her, taking her wine glass and setting it aside on a nearby table before offering her his arm. "We are right for each other and no one else."

Alice damns social convention and presses a kiss to the corner of his softly smiling mouth as he leads her toward the lighted stage and the couple waltzing gracefully upon it. They follow Hamish and Margaret's lead, but it is not a London waltz they perform despite their evening of practicing the night before. No, if a Champion and a Hatter cannot dance to a different tune, they can at least choose different steps.

Margaret sees this and shakes her head, smiling.

Hamish sniffs and rolls his eyes tolerantly.

The song doesn't quite match the rhythm of the steps of the Waltz of the Tumtum Tree, but that's fine.

Emboldened, more couples join the stage to dance, to celebrate, to live.

* * *

[End of Chapter 3: Scene 1 of 3]

* * *

Notes:

1. So now we know why Tam is 2 years older than he _ought_ to be. Those Hightopp Boys and Time... *shakes head*

2. Also, I'd like to highlight the point I mentioned about the pair of Correspondence Mirrors. Alice and Mirana used them in Book 3 to communicate while Alice and Tarrant were in London (and, later, Thackery sent spinach puffs through them) but now Alice and her sister use them to keep in touch. They have remained open continuously so time in Upland is equal to time in Underland (from the time Tam was born through the present). Just something to keep in mind as the story progresses.


	134. Book 4, Sisters and Brothers, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Three: Sisterly Advice, Brotherly Differences  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

"An' jus' _where_ d'ye think _ye're_ goin', laddie?"

_Damn it,_ Leif swears: he'd successfully dodged the jabberwockies that have been hanging around since the annual Pick-a-Therry looking for lost and misplaced bushels of Thrambleberries, but he'd completely forgotten about Thackery!

"Out for a picnic," he quips, explaining away the bundle of provisions he's in the process of... _borrowing _from the March Hare's stores.

"No picnics planned fer t'day!" the hare asserts, his eyes googling and whiskers twitching. "Gi'me ano'her one!"

"Another what?"

"_Excuse!_" Thackery shouts and Leif winces as the percussive force of it is amplified by the kitchen's white, stone walls.

"Why bother?" he grumbles, knowing it's useless to argue with the creature.

He heads for the door and Thackery clamors after him, a cutting board clutched before his skinny chest like a shield. "B'cause th'lass is yer o'her half, ye daft Shucher!" Thackery declares in response to the rhetorical question.

Paw on the kitchen door, Leif pauses. "I beg your pardon... _What?_"

"Oh, aye, I've seen it!" the hare asserts with a shudder that had probably been intended to be a sagely nod. "Ye're goin' afteh yer missus. Aye. Aye. _Bad _idea, that. 'Twould be better served teh kill Time! More romantic, ay'ways!"

Leif leans over the hare who shivers and quivers but doesn't cower. "I am _not _going to sit around with my tail in my hands _waiting _for Tarra to get herself hurt."

"Sae _ye'll_ b'th' one teh do it, eh!" Thackery points an accusatory, furry digit at him. "It won' mend! Once tha' strut's been gimped... won' mend!"

"_What_ won't mend?" Leif demands despite his better sense telling him to just get _on _with things.

"Strut!" Thackery asserts.

Leif turns back toward the door.

The March Hare _grabs his __**tail!**_

"_Trust!_" Thackery shouts with a hard yank. "Trust, ye loaf-headed long-tail! Strut, trust, all four th' same an' one repeated makes five. Aye, aye, jus' ano'her way o' speakin' it!"

When Leif jerks his tail out from the hare's grasp, Thackery dives for the cutting board he'd dropped. Scowling, Leif accuses him, "You aren't normally this incomprehensible."

"Well, ye don' jus' say sommat important straight _out!_" he declares. "Got teh go 'round a bit, ye ken. 'Tis more polite, aye?"

Leif sighs. With a rueful shake of his head, he pushes open the door.

"Ye're missus won' b' likin' this a'tall! Nae, nae, no'ta'tall! Kill Time, I say!"

The door shuts. Despite that, Leif can still hear the hare's unsolicited advice, though it is muffled:

"'Tis what she expects! No' a cuttin'!"

Leif takes two strides down the hall before a wistful sigh of "... _board_..." resonates through the painted, wooden door. He feels his lips twist into a cynical grin: the hare doesn't even know what he's talking about. The thought is both humorous and comforting.

He returns to his rooms and places the provisions he'd collected from the pantry in his travel bag. Hoisting it over his shoulder, he reaches for his scimitar...

And frowns; Leif's paw hovers over empty air where his sword _should _be held aloft by its stand.

"Now, _why _would you be looking for this, cousin?"

Leif turns and regards his king, who stands examining Leif's scimitar in the doorway just off the common room of Leif's apartment.

King Dale continues, "You have food and water packed. Perhaps you'll go for a trek today? Picnic on one of the mountaintops around Mamoreal? If that's the case, you certainly won't need _this._"

Leif glares.

Dale smiles. "No? Well, you've also packed a cloak meant for concealing the wearer and shabby clothing. You'll be visiting a Grobben Pub, then? Still, I would think a knife would be better in that case than a sword."

Mute, Leif holds out his paw for the weapon.

Dale does not give it to him. "I have only to demand that you tell me what you're planning and you will confess all," he reminds his Champion and, not for the first time, Leif wishes Dale weren't quite _so _skilled at being an absolute _brat_ of a cub when it suits him.

"But we both know what you're going to do, don't we?" the king replies. "She won't understand, Leif. Nor will she tolerate this."

"I know."

Dale shakes his head. "If I, her _father_, can find the strength to let her go, why can't you?"

Leif swallows. He does not want to answer that. His First Claw feels unnaturally heavy against his chest. He resists reaching for it, glancing down at it, and yet Dale's golden eyes lower and add weight to the pendant.

He struggles to ignore the niggling thought in his mind, the stirring in his soul, the _knowing_ that his First Claw has already been claimed. But no. _No!_ He will. Not. Think. It! He has kept this terrible secret for so long... he will _not reveal it now! _He reminds himself that Tarra is not... not... She is not for him. He does not want her. She is Royalty. His cousin's daughter. A mere girl...

No.

The thought of his First Claw in her possession turns his stomach even as it makes his pulse race. He fights the rush of dizziness.

Leif measures the moment in breaths, in frantic heartbeats. And when his liege once again raises his gaze, Leif can see hostility – or something very much like it – in the king's eyes. "My daughter?" he confirms. "Tarranya?"

He wishes he could deny the suspicion that the king asserts. He wishes his own heartbeat and breaths and the scent of his anxiety were not capable of betraying him. But of course they can; they _have._ His cousin has heard, seen, and smelled...

The only comfort Leif can give the father of the girl his soul has Chosen is this: "I have no interest in her."

Dale takes a step closer, examining Leif who battles against the urge to step back. "When I met Mirana, it was this way for me," he rumbles, the words are both reluctantly spoken and shaped into a warning. "_I_ did not fight it, as you do."

"It should be fought," Leif replies. He bites his tongue to stop the assertions there. Surely, Dale _knows _the rest: she is a princess; she is too young; she is a kinsman's daughter; she is not for him.

"You... are an idiot," the king informs him, "if you think she has not _sensed _this already. You are a fool if you think she accepted this task without a thought to winning your approval." Dale regards him, weighs him. "So many things are clear now. Her drive to be Alice's equal – _your _equal. You told me once: that is the only kind of mate you would ever consider. She has _changed _herself to fit _you._"

The observation leaves Leif feeling physically ill. He has to force himself to not close his eyes, to not turn away, to not press his paws to his ears.

And Dale is not yet finished:

"It began years ago," he muses unhappily in a considering tone, speaking as his epiphany plays out. "Perhaps even the first time she saw you training with Alice. Saw, and something in her _knew_ she would have to become a Champion. For you."

Leif clenches his jaw shut to keep himself from arguing. He mustn't. He _knows _he mustn't. He is a Champion – it is not his place to argue with the king.

But he _burns _to!

Dale holds out the sword.

"Do what you must for your own peace of mind but _do not _shake her confidence. And you might consider the fact that your reluctance to yield to her – your unwillingness to set aside your own pride – has driven her to this. If you had accepted her for who she truly is..."

Thankfully, the king does not finish his sentence. He does not finish laying the blame upon Leif's shoulders. It teeters, clings. There is the smallest chance that Leif will find a way to shed it before it settles in place and crushes him.

"And you're not going alone," the King announces. "Take Mallymkun and Bayto with you. You'll need her size and his nose."

"Sire, I don't need—"

"Tarra does. She needs to do this _alone_. If she sees you, you will damage more than her warrior's pride." Dale shakes his head, a hard look in his eyes. "I will not permit it. I want my daughter to return home safe and _whole_."

"She will," he swears, accepting his sword from the king's grasp. "I'll see to it, even if she never sees me."

"Make sure that she doesn't, Champion Leif. _Make sure_ she doesn't."

* * *

[End of Chapter 3: Scene 2 of 3]


	135. Book 4, Sisters and Brothers, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Three: Sisterly Advice, Brotherly Differences  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Tarrant can't help but giggle at the sight of the utter _bliss _on Hamish's face as the man takes his first sip of Hightopp-brewed tea.

"I don't know how you manage it, my odd friend, but you make the best tea I've ever had."

"It's the borogove toenails," he replies cheerfully, wishing Alice were sitting next to him here in the Ascot Manor Conservatory to share the joke.

Hamish holds up a hand. "Say no more, I beg you. I shall pretend you said something reasonable and continue enjoying my morning tea."

"By all means."

Tarrant idly wonders what could be taking Alice so long. Surely, assisting her sister with getting Elaine and Townley ready for the day will not take _much _longer... And both Tam and Win _should_ be awake by now...

"Have you time this coming Thursday to come through for a trip to the club?" Hamish wonders aloud.

"I'm afraid not. Alice and I are required at court to tend to our apprentices."

"Ah, yes. They do require tending, don't they?" Hamish heaves a great, put-upon sigh.

"A shortage of useful minds at the company?" Tarrant summarizes.

"A dearth," Hamish agrees. "A veritable _void._"

Tarrant muses, "What might be the reason Winslow isn't apprenticing with you yet? He is of age, is he not?" From Hamish's scandalized expression, Tarrant infers: "Ah, perhaps not. That must be a custom unique to..."

"Yes, that mad _nameless_ place you and Alice insist on dwelling in, isn't it?"

"Yes. Quite. Although why you sound so jealous I've no idea." Tarrant smirks.

Hamish sips noisily at his tea. "How's Tamial doing with that small matter of the fate of his future?"

Tarrant giggles at his friend's snark. "If Alice's sister ever saw you like this, she'd consider it a mercy to permit you a bit of posing with those not-swords."

"God above, Tarrant. They are called _foils._"

Tarrant just grins.

At that moment, two blurs of motion race past the conservatory windows. Tarrant twitches and Hamish's gaze flickers toward the wall of gauzily curtained windows as two thirteen-year-old boys thunder by.

"Two little lords in a lark," Hamish remarks proudly.

Tarrant frowns and then considers those words until he gives it up as incomprehensible Hamish Speak. Reluctantly, he allows, "Tam _will_ be a laird, one day, I suppose... Although he hasn't much interest in it at the moment, honestly. Nor did I at his age. Perfectly normal. Better things to do. Including selecting a trade for himself."

"A trade!" Hamish sniffs.

"Aye. They tend to be a mite useful from time to time." Yes, his hatting skills have been quite useful in distracting the Red Queen from her quest for the wee lad, Alice, hadn't they?

"Useful for what, I ask you!" Hamish rallies with considerable bluster. "Have you given _no_ thought to training your son to take over management of the family estate?"

"Goodness, no! Why-ever would we do a thing like that when it's the boy's _instincts _that require development? However can a person be expected to manage a village if he cannot manage his own hands? His own mind?"

"That didn't stop _you_, apparently," Hamish mutters from behind his teacup.

Tarrant ignores that and concludes his highly _sensible_ explanation: "No, no. A trade is very necessary where I come from, Ascot. Quite necessary."

"Hm. How is the next Royal Hatter coming along?"

"Splendidly!" Tarrant's eyes unfocus with pride. "She did _very_ well when she chose her trade. Why, her instincts almost shape themselves!" Even _he _hadn't taken to the craft so effortlessly. Why, in another year or so, he doubts his services will be required at Mamoreal at all! Not even for the trickiest and most conspicuous or unique of hats! Which reminds him... he mustn't forget to take the orders he'd assigned himself with him when they go back to Mamoreal... And that blasted Cat had better not have taken them out of their boxes and played with them! Oh, brangergain i'tall, he'd _known _he'd forgotten _something!_

_Aye, like a warning teh tha' slurvish Cat teh keep his paws off th' hats?_

Yes. Something _exactly _like that!

"It's quite nice when an apprentice takes to one's trade so effortlessly," Hamish remarks, pulling Tarrant's attention away from the thought of painstakingly picking invisible cat hair off of custom hats and bringing it back around to the subject at hand. Or rather: the subject at tea.

"Ah, yes. The _void _you mentioned."

"Indeed. I'm hoping Townley will suit the business when his time comes."

"What of Winslow?"

"Ah. Yes. Well, as Lord Manchester's only grandson he'll be expected to go into that family business." Hamish frowns into his nearly empty teacup, either lamenting the loss of his beverage or his adopted son's future. Or both. "The boy's not terribly taken with the thought of making pots and pans and tea kettles."

"Which is a shame, truly. They're all absolutely lovely instruments," Tarrant observes. "Although perhaps one cannot be overly imaginative in their creation and development." Yes, Tarrant feels he's quite lucky to have chosen a trade that allows him such room for experimentation. While all pans and cookery utensils of the sort must be round, the same is thankfully _not_ true of hats!

"Still, he's a smart lad," Hamish asserts, enjoying his own moment of pride-ish behavior. "I'm sure he'll find a way around the obligation when the time comes. If he doesn't take to it, of course. He may yet surprise himself by enjoying it."

Tarrant's lips twitch as he thinks of all the lovely racket Thackery and the queen's children had once made in the castle kitchens with pots and pans and tea kettles. "Perhaps it is not the product itself but the application he may endeavor to enliven," he suggests.

Hamish raises a brow at that. "None of your mad ideas, now, Hightopp. Winslow gets into quite enough mischief as it is these days. Why, just the day before we left the city, he disappeared for two hours! Two hours! When we asked where he'd gone, he told us he'd been at the library!" Hamish huffs. "I sent the butler around to confirm."

"And did he?"

"Go to the library?"

"Confirm it?"

"Well, yes. On both counts. Which was what made it so strange. Winslow has _never_ gone to the library of his own volition."

"Well, as Alice constantly reminds me – despite the fact I most certainly have _not _forgotten! – this _is _a bothersome age for boys. The changes and such."

Hamish snorts. "True. I suppose a bit of oddness can be expected." The man then gives Tarrant an anxious once-over. "He'd better outgrow it, however!"

Tarrant giggles. "And here Alice and I are still trying to get Tam to grow _into _his!"

"That sort of remark is _not _going to encourage me to pass on Winslow's request," Hamish grumbles, giving in to temptation and reaching for the teapot despite the fact that Alice and Margaret and the children have still not made an appearance at the brunch table yet.

"A request? Of me?"

"Yes. He asked me if he might borrow Tam for a few days."

"Well... this is unexpected."

Hamish sets about fixing his tea to perfection. "Still... Winslow impressed upon me the difficulties Tamial is experiencing with regards to the selection of a trade. Thought perhaps it might do the lad good to see another way of doing things. Broaden his mind."

Tarrant glowers. The gesture is lost on Hamish as he measures cream into his tea. "The broadening of a mind is a very serious thing. A head can only take so much, you know."

Hamish glances at him. "Still, it can't hurt."

"A too-broad mind? It sounds _excruciating_, in all honesty."

"Still, I'm passing along Winslow's request."

Tarrant's glower renews. "Yes, I noticed. A request Alice and I anticipated coming from Tam. Not from _you._"

"Ah. Winslow did his work well, didn't he? Converting me to his point of view. I'm sure there's a promising business man in that boy somewhere, waiting for his day to come." Hamish smirks. "They _do _learn fast, don't they?"

Tarrant feels rather disquieted by that observation, but Hamish merely replaces the spoon in the sugar bowl and stirs his tea. "Frightfully fast," Tarrant numbly agrees. Indeed, whose unsettlingly _brilliant_ idea had it been to have their request posed by a man Tarrant considers a friend and equal? (...well, an equal in _most _things. Haberdashery is obviously not one of them!)

"Well, should you decide to permit your son to visit for a bit, I would have no objections."

"I'm afraid we shall have to decline," Tarrant replies unhappily.

"As you wish. The offer remains open. Perhaps Tamial might find something worthwhile to do with himself here if life in your country doesn't suit him. Considering Alice's inclination to... live abroad, it's only _logical_ that Tamial might require a similar... choice in the matter."

Tarrant's first thought is to accuse Hamish of trying to finagle the means of looking glass travel out of Tam. It would undoubtedly make the trading business... speedier. However, he merely says, "Yes, yes. That _is _an option Alice and I have discussed. Perhaps after he's located a bit more of himself he'll be ready. Or _we'll_ be ready. Yes, I believe that's what I meant to say."

Hamish snorts. "I find myself in agreement with you on that point. It'll do no good to let Tamial go if _you're _not ready."

Tarrant sighs. "So you _are _capable of being reasonable! And to think, it's only taken eleven years for this momentous event to occur. Perhaps Alice chose this as one of her six impossible things today..." He resolves to confirm that very fact with her as soon as possible!

Before Hamish can snap out a rebuttal, the Conservatory door opens and admits the very person Tarrant most wishes to see.

"Alice! Is everyone laced up, buttoned in, and properly stockinged for the day?"

She grins and hangs back as Margaret herds her two youngest children towards the table. Lee starts prattling about shoes that had gone for a walk by themselves and had hidden on top of the armoire and how in the world had they managed to get up there and wasn't it lucky Auntie Alice thought to look for them there because she says that sometimes things without a pair of feet of their own can _fly...!_

Tarrant giggles and his grin widens. Alice puts a bit of a swagger into her walk, making her long skirts sway.

"Laced? Oh, yes. Buttons? Thoroughly buttoned. Stockings?" Alice's gaze falls toward her own skirts and Tarrant giggles. "_Properly _stockinged? Well, who's to say what is _proper?_"

Tarrant hopes he'll be the one who investigates that issue _throughly_ just as soon as circumstances permit. His hands twitch toward his smirking, sashaying wife but he – manfully! – refrains from pulling her over his knees and into his lap. However, there is _one _matter he can address quite effectively in their current company:

"Alice, by any chance did you include an uncharacteristically sensible Hamish in your List this morning?"

* * *

[End of Chapter 3]


	136. Book 4, Playing at Peace, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Four: Playing at Peace  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

By the end of the very first day of her assignment, Mally has acquired a notion. A very _violent _notion. And it has to do _entirely_ with the man-lion she'd been ordered to _ensure_ doesn't do anything... Stupid. She can already tell _that's _going to be a lost battle. Blast it all! This idiotic lion is going to _ruin_ her spotless record with the Queen's Guard!

"_Leif!_" she hisses. "_Ge' outta 'ere!_"

She glances anxiously from the cloaked lion to the workshop window where Mally has been watching Tarra assist the furniture maker. They'd had a _very _early morning and both Mally and Bayto had heard the overwhelmingly information-packed lecture Tarra had received from the furniture maker that morning:

"As ye're righ'ly aged fer yer Craftin' Instincts teh b'wakened, ye'll intrehdaece yerself as mae apprentice, y'ken? Nauw, as mae apprentice, ye'll likely b'advisin' th'custom on their orders. We've only an hour 'r twine teh fill yer head up wi' th' ways o' smallish carpentry – o'herways ken as 'inteh-home wares' – sae heed mae well, lass..."

Then, just as the town had begun to stir to life for the day, Tarra had been sent out with replies to the furniture requests that had been delivered in the master's absence. Mally had followed her, clutching Bayto's collar and had overheard Master Setteeson's lecture rephrased and reused over and over again all morning long while various clients had fretted over this brocade or that shade of wood stain. With a brief stop at the furniture shop, Tarra had delivered the detailed orders to her employer and had once again been sent out. This time to procure lunch.

It hadn't taken long for her to be Noticed.

"Ye're new teh town," a lanky young man had observed as Tarra had wrapped up her purchases at the baker's.

"Oh, aye. Dae'in' a bit o' apprenticin'!"

"In which trade be ye workin'?" the young mad had asked before placing his order at the shop.

"Smallish carpentry an' inteh-home wares."

"Ah. Sae _ye're_ Setteeson's naew apprentice?"

Tarra had smiled with a becoming mix of pride and bashful modesty. "Fer th' time bein'."

"Well, I'm Abler Masonmark. O' th' stone engravers trade. Mayhap ye'll b**'** thinkin' o' steppin' ou' this evenin'? B' glad teh show ye th' town."

"'Tis a date, Abler Masonmark. Stop 'round an' ask fer Dirka Worthwool."

Mally and Bayto had hidden around the corner and watched the two part ways. Apprehensively, Bayto had whined, "Do you want me to tell Leif _that_, too, when I go back to the inn with my report?"

Mally had cringed. "Aye, you'd better. No telling what that fool will do if he learns of it otherways..."

Unfortunately, Leif had decided that he'd had enough quiet time at the inn "coordinating" the mission and waiting for news. Apparently.

Mally waves her paws at him. "Ge' back to the inn! She'll _see _you!"

The shadows beneath the hood of his long cloak shift into an oddly scowl-like pattern. "I need to see this Masonmark." It is not a request, Mally notices.

She considers her options. And while it would be very satisfying to call his attention to his unreasonable behavior, it _would _be highly unprofessional. Mally _prides _herself on being a Professional. "Fine. _See_ only! No speaking, showing, or threatening!"

He gives her a flat glare and, thankfully, refrains from arguing.

"Where's Bayto got to?" she whispers instead, returning her attention to the window and the tasks the roundish and eye-patched furniture maker seems to be enthusiastically explaining to his temporary assistant.

"I sent him to sniff out the town. Maybe he'll overhear these supposed rumors and we can all leave on tomorrow."

Mally shakes her head. Here, in the narrow alley behind the furniture maker's shop, in the shadows of approaching dusk, she dares to argue, "Settin' aside the fact that Bayto ain't all that good at Outlandish, there's this one to keep in mind: she won't be goin' home so quickly, you know. Like our Alice in that way. She'll see it through to the end."

Leif grunts and Mally turns around in time to catch the bitter twist of his lips.

"Sour bile?" she muses, with a knowing smirk.

"Something like that."

"Well, as I'll be taking my supper _out _tonight, maybe Bayto and I could bring you back something more to your liking than the... _fare_ at the inn?"

"_I'll_ cover the... _date_," he spits out. "You've been on duty all day. Get some rest, Mally."

"No. Absolutely not! She'll see you lurking about and—!"

"She won't see me! I _can _blend into the crowd!"

"Right. In Shuchland, maybe. Go back to the inn. Bayto and I can handle this."

"I am _not _going back to the inn!" he growls at her. His voice is soft but the deep tone of it rattles Mally's bones. "This is _my _mission!"

Mally gives him a once over. "Aye. And you're perfectly suited for it. Inconspicuous size. Good tracking skills. Very useful, _you_ are."

His paws curl into fists. "More useful _here_ than at Mamoreal."

"How d'you figure that?" Mally returns, looking through the window again. Tarra appears to be using a handful of sand to smooth over the rough edges of an unvarnished, wooden rocking chair. "The king and queen ain't got _any_ Champions _now._"

"They will in five days' time. The White Guard can manage until then."

"Five days...? Oh. Right. _Thursday_." When Alice and Tarrant normally visit the castle. And she won't even be there this time for tea when her friends arrive! Blast it all!

Irritated and her teacup of patience well and truly empty, Mally snaps, "Do whatever you want. _I'm_ goin' be keeping an eye on our charge tonight because _I_ – unlike _ you_ – can understand Outlandish. So it'll be _me_ who hears these rumors. _You _just continue _supervising_."

Miraculously, he doesn't argue. Mally breathes a silent sigh of relief and turns her attention back to the workshop. She can barely hear Setteeson's occasional comments:

"Nauw, ye see this line 'ere? Tha's a chair line. Won'see a line like this on a ken-made settee 'r table..."

"An' this slope here? Follows th' curve o' a unicorn's spine. Ye've gotteh take th' custom's species inteh consideration, ye see?"

"Th' ver'best inteh-house wares fit th' owner. Th' chair fits th' owner; th' owner fits th' chair. Tha's the job, lass. Fittin'."

Mally isn't sure if Tarra listens and nods and, occasionally, _hmms_ because she's genuinely interested in the lecture or if she is taking her role _very seriously._

In any case, when the evening bell sounds, calling in the workers from the nearby fields and Orash orchards to dinner, Tarra helps Setteeson clean up his workroom. Just as they finish, the bell on the shop's front showcase door draws their attention.

Through the glass, Mally hears Abler Masonmark's voice call out. "Gehd duskin', Master Setteeson, ser! I'm 'ere teh call on Ms. Worthwool if'n she b'liken teh gae out fer supper t'night."

Setteeson waves to him through the open door between the shop and the workroom. "Ar," he says. "Dirka's 'ere. A moment, laddie."

Mally cannot hear what Setteeson says to his assistant in a low mumble, but Tarra's answering smirk is _very _clear. Obviously, she's quite proud of herself for having made contact with at least one of the local youths.

"It's the younger ones Setteeson said were speakin' out against the queen," Mally muses. "Right?"

Leif nods. "Yes."

Mally sighs. "The young do like to boast and brag. You realize this could just be normal teenage malcontent. Mere lads and lasses wouldn't _really _have any plans to move agains' the White Crown."

They watch Tarra move out into the front of the shop to greet her new... friend. Leif sends Mally a sharp glare. "It's our job to make sure they don't."

She huffs and, before he can turn away, leaps onto his shoulder. "I ain't forgot!" she admonishes him. "Now, let's see how good you are at tracking!"

And, as it turns out, he's no Bayto, but he's still pretty good. They arrive at one of the village taverns and Leif finds himself a seat at the bar in the deepest shadows in the place. Mally scurries away, weaves through boots and dodges drips of Grobbenale and Battenmead until she's under the table Tarra is sharing with Abler Masonmark.

Mally listens. Not just to their conversation, but to many others in the room.

Still, no strange, radical rumors are murmured. No dissatisfaction is spoken against the White Queen.

Not tonight, anyway.

You'd think they'd be more obliging what with guests from out of town present!

And ain't lads supposed to want to _show off _for the lasses? Mally indulges in her frustration and irritation by glaring at Abler's knees.

When Tarra and Abler get up to leave, Mally reluctantly returns to Leif – muttermonging-less – and they follow, keeping to the shadows of Crimson Harbor. Abler shows Tarra around the streets, pointing out the scrollery and laundry. He also shows her a sweets shop and a local milliner's. They've made a complete and pleasant tour of the town by the time their path brings them back to the furniture shop.

Everything is just fine. _Normal_. Even the way Abler leans toward Tarra, as if to demand a good-night kiss is _normal_.

Tarra plays the game: she smiles, pinches his cheek, thanks him for the evening, and disappears inside the shop.

Abler doesn't seem all that surprised. Or even disappointed. It's a game, after all. And, apparently, one he likes to play.

"I don't like him," Leif declares, scowling after the young man who is strutting off down the quiet, dark street, whistling under his breath.

Mally rolls her eyes. "I'm gettin' as tired of your jealous frowns as you probably are o' makin' 'em!" she declares.

"I am not jealous."

Mally shakes her head and sighs. "An' you're _thick_, too," she grumbles.

He slides a fierce glare in her direction. "We have a job to do, Mallymkun," he murmurs in a dark tone.

"That's what I've been tryin' to remind _you_ of!" she hisses.

"Is _that_ what all your squeaking was about?"

Mally has to command herself _not _to draw her sword. After all, they're both here for the same reason. They both serve the same crown.

Still... Mally has a notion:

Working with _this_ prime, up-right walking example of Stupid is going to be hellish. And about These Sorts of Things, Mally is _never_ wrong.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4: Scene 1 of 3]


	137. Book 4, Playing at Peace, 2 of 3

This chapter is** rated M **for non-explicit sexual situations.

* * *

_**Chapter Four: Playing at Peace  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

It is a hellish week.

After arriving in Iplam through the looking glass – with a scowling and sullen son in tow – and after debriefing a frustratingly vague evaporating cat and after quickly inspecting the half-dozen painstakingly customized examples of quality head-wear for invisible cat hair (a task _not _to be taken lightly and which must be done _properly_ when he has more Time!) and after apologizing to the sheep and chickens for neglecting to warn them that a Cat would be village sitting for a day and a half, Tarrant _still _has his regular duties to get on with. Of which there are Many.

"What can I do to help?" Alice asks him, laying a hand on his arm even as she holds out his top hat on the threshold of the manor. And for that question alone, he feels a surge of love for her so strong it makes his throat lock and her breath catch.

He brushes his fingers along her jaw and under her chin. "I'm due at Eldred Boothsmith's first today," he tells her, withdrawing a roll of parchment and stick of charcoal. "As 'tis nearly time fer th' autumnal Crafted Goods Barterment. Woul' ye go round an' ask th' families after the perishables they'll be requirin' fer th' comin' week?"

Alice nods. "Of course. I'll stop by the coup and the dairy stalls to see if there are any requests from that quarter as well. Perhaps the chickens are getting tired of cracked blue corn or the cows would prefer a bit of clover hay..."

Tarrant marvels at her. He doesn't doubt that the heartache that still tightens his chest is from her. He doesn't doubt that she still aches for a sword and a sparring partner or even a reluctant student. But he can very clearly see that she is _trying_. Perhaps something good _had _come of their trip Above...

"Thank ye, my Alice."

"You're welcome, Raven."

And so Tarrant makes the rounds, listing the goods that each family will need for the coming autumn and winter and the products they have available to trade for them. Alice starts at a different home and asks after each family's list of edibles and other daily necessities they'll need for the coming few days. It's a much bigger job than it seems as, in order to ensure there is no more waste than can be avoided, the exchange of edibles must be negotiated and coordinated precisely. Tarrant leaves the task in Alice's very capable hands and gets on with his own tasks for the day.

Later, just as day turns to evening, Alice finds him in the manor study, scowling at the lists of necessities and barter-ables.

"Everything's arranged for the foodstuffs exchange tomorrow morning," she tells him, coming around the side of the desk and glancing over his shoulder at the parchments spread out on the desk. After a moment, she rubs his shoulders.

With a nod to the unfurled lists, she says, "This will be just fine," and, not for the first time, he admires her ability to see order in chaos.

He'd spent an hour puzzling over how to ensure that his first attempt at representing his village's citizens at the Crafted Goods Barterment benefits _every one _of Hightopp Village's residents and yet, with a single look, Alice can comfort him in a tone that is confident rather than compassionate.

"How d'ye _do_ tha'?" he asks, pushing his chair back, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her down to sit on his knee.

"Do what?" she asks, smiling a she looks over the parchments a bit more closely.

"See th' order in all this chaos?"

"I suppose my time with the company, brief though it was, wasn't a complete waste of effort after all." She bumps his shoulder playfully. "Speaking of... How do you see the Truth behind all the masks people hide behind?"

He grins. "I suppose we all have our talents."

"Yes, we do," she says, then turns back to the list of items needed and the list of goods available for trade. "We'll go to Mamoreal and try to get the best possible items for everyone, of course," Alice assures him and, with her aforementioned background with the Ascot family's trading company in Upland, he doesn't doubt they'll succeed, "but I don't think we'll have too much trouble this season... even if we ask our Hightoppians to barter amongst themselves."

"Hightoppians?" he echoes.

"Uh-hm," she murmurs then leans back in his embrace, one arm looped over his shoulders and the other hand resting over his heart. "I know it hasn't been all that long since they arrived, but... we're all a kind of family, now, too. Aren't we?"

Tarrant looks at her and thinks of the camaraderie that is slowly building in their little village. He thinks of the jokes and jests and hand shakes and slaps on the back and hails of welcome and cups of tea and the sharing of warm bread and fresh cream and just-harvested vegetables and...

"Aye," he replies. "Ye've th' right o' it, my Alice. Hightoppians."

She smiles.

He rubs the palm of his hand against her thigh and wonders aloud, "You look happier, Alice."

The ache is still there – _her _ache – but he can see that her smile is genuine and the light in her eyes is true.

"Yes," she says simply. "It's going to be fine. _Everything_ is going to be fine."

And, for the first time since they'd made this enormous change in their lives and responsibilities, Tarrant believes it.

"Come help me with dinner," she orders. "We've a disgruntled son to feed."

He sighs but lets her stand and then pull him out of his chair.

Yes, Tam is indeed _most _disgruntled. Not only had he been denied a holiday Above, but all of his troubles had been waiting to welcome him home. Unfortunately, Chessur had not helped the matter:

"Back for another try, are we?" Chessur had purred upon seeing their frowning son. "And here I was _sure _you'd take to an Uplandish trade this time!"

As Alice and Tarrant cut up vegetables for stew and slice the bread and tear up non-sentient leaves of lettuce and cabbage for salad, the faint thumps of a rawhide drum can be heard from upstairs.

"I wish that meant he'd finished with his studies today, but..."

"Aye," Tarrant answers with a frown. "More likely he di'nae pick up a single book or scroll."

"Except to move them out of the way so he could get his drums out."

Tarrant sighs.

That sigh follows him over the next few days. Tam is moody, depressed, and irritable – more so than normal – and Tarrant seriously begins to wonder about his son's health.

"Could he be... ill?" he asks Alice one night as she washes the dinner dishes and he dries. From upstairs, Tam is strumming on his guitar angrily.

"Yes," Alice replies. "It's an ailment commonly known as Puberty."

Tarrant winces and accepts the dripping earthenware bowl Alice hands him. "Mayhap the trip to Mamoreal will cheer him."

"Dear Fates, I hope so." She scrubs at the cast iron pan that the night's potato pie had been baked in and grits out, "I don't know what else to do."

Tarrant isn't sure either. Nightly quizzes on his studies had yielded very poor results. More responsibility around the village had in fact driven him more and more often to his room.

He wishes he and Alice had more _time_ to spend with him but this budding settlement is their responsibility and there are other families counting on them and...

Tarrant looks up at the ceiling as a particularly harsh chord is aggressively strummed. "Alice... I'm afraid."

"I know," she says, her soapy hand reaching out and grasping his. She's exhausted but she _tries_ to reassure both him and herself: "If we can just be patient a little longer... Something will catch his interest soon. I'll ask Mirana to let Tam, Lanny, and Ian run amok in Mamoreal Town together. Perhaps that will help. A little adventure, I mean."

"Aye. Although I pity the craftsmen there... well. It's for a greater good," Tarrant decides. "Perhaps if they found a _little_ trouble..."

"Exactly," Alice agrees.

Unfortunately, Tam doesn't.

"I don't want to go to Mamoreal tomorrow," he announces suddenly over the dinner table.

"I... beg your pardon," Tarrant manages, his cheese sandwich forgotten halfway to his mouth.

"What's the point?" Tam dares. "Nothing ever changes. Here. There. It doesn't matter." He looks up from stabbing his uneaten sandwich with his fork. "It's boring _everywhere_."

Out of the corner of his eye, Tarrant sees Alice's jaw lock and her eyes flash. After nearly a week of constant un-gratitude and stubborn, self-imposed angst, Tarrant fears their son is one more stab of his fork away from a confrontation with Alice's inner Champion.

"Be glad things _aren't_ changing," he quickly replies, rubbing his stockinged foot over Alice's beneath the table. "Boring is a good thing."

Tam snorts. "Sure. It's great. Why can't I visit Win Above?"

"I'm seriously considering it," Alice grits out.

Tarrant opens his mouth to say... well, to say _something!_

"Or better yet," Tam continues, his eyes flashing with inspiration that is absolutely staged. "Why not just show me how looking glass travel works? Then I wouldn't have to bother you to keep the mirror open at all!"

Tarrant sighs.

Alice takes a deep breath. "If you're done mutilating your dinner, you may consume it at _any _time," she informs him.

"I don't like cheese sandwiches."

"Then perhaps Your Majesty King Hightopp would be so kind as to prepare a menu so that your parents, who obviously have nothing better to do with their lives than cook meals for you and wash your dishes, might offer something more agreeable tomorrow night!"

And that quickly, Lady Hightopp – still too new and too tentative to be more than a forceful Idea – disappears in the wake of Champion Alice.

Tarrant's wife stands and carries her plate over to the wash basin. She sets it down with a _thunk!_, steps into her boots, and grabs the tall, plain stave leaning beside the door with the cloaks and hoods. Tarrant watches Tam flinch when the door slams shut.

"It's not fair," his son informs the remains of his dinner.

"No," Tarrant agrees, aching for his wife. Aching _with _his wife. "It isn't. This is life, after all. And while you're busy thinking on how life isn't fair to you, go ahead and consider how fair it's been to your Mam who had to give up her job and her friends to come here. Consider how _fair_ it's been to the Hightopp family, all but one of whom _died _in this very clearing because of the greed of the Bluddy Red Queen. Life was _interesting_ then. Ver'excitin'! Why, one ne'er knew when ye'd be taken by th' Red Knights, tortured, _beheaded_. Oh, aye," he growls. "A ver'_interestin'_ time was had by _all._ Now, when ye're done _not _eatin', ye can wash yer dishes yerself an' - as ye've an appointment wi' Sir Fenruffle at Mamoreal t'morrow – ye can get teh work on yer studies."

Tarrant doesn't bother with his own dishes. He rises, grabs his shoes and the second stave, and follows his wife out the door.

He finds her in the clearing behind the manor where Chessur had delivered them the last time they'd held the Maigh here. It's hard to believe that eleven years have passed since then. Especially when he's faced with his wife's depthless and brightly burning passion, be it rooted in anger or love.

The stave whistles through the air as she practices the moves he knows she fears she'll one day forget how to perform. But he also knows she fears needlessly. When she turns, the staff arcing through the air and screaming toward him, he meets it with his own.

The fight is brief and Alice wins.

She pins him to the ground, her weight balanced equally on her shins which she uses to press his thighs down and on her hands which hold the staff across his chest. For a minute, she pants down at him, her eyes glowing with pure _fire_. He watches, spellbound, at the amber light that burns there. And then she _stops_ pinning him to the earth. Her knees lower to either side of his hips. Her hands release and toss aside the stave. She presses _against _him, pelvis, chest, and lips.

"Stop with me," she mumbles into his gasping mouth.

His hands reach for her. His brows twitch with concentration and intent and then...

Silence.

The breeze stops. The sounds of the twilight creatures stop.

Everything stops... except for them.

Time stands still as they fight to get closer to each other. She takes him into her. He makes her feel every movement, every moment that passes for them... for _only_ them.

Yet even as he joins her in the rush of release, he does not find peace. How can he? How can he knowing that Alice will always be a Champion and only sometimes a Lady? How can he knowing her greatest fear is obsoleteness and weakness? How can he knowing that when she is hurt or unsure or frustrated, her first instinct is to fight?

He's lucky she enjoys it when he joins her in that. He's fortunate that is something he can give her. But what of the need itself? Is that not tragic beyond compare?

He lies with her in the motionless silence of the Iplam twilight. They look up at the unmoving stars, at the snap-dragon flies frozen in mid-flight. Soon, they will release their hold on Time. Soon, they will allow life to live again. Soon, _they_ will live again. But not now. Now they are two Champions in exile.

Until this moment, Tarrant had believed it had been only Alice who suffers from that particular affliction. But he sees the truth now. How can he not? How can he ignore the words he'd snarled at his own son?

For the survivors of the Bloody Big Head's reign of terror... the fight will never be over. And he and Alice are merely _playing _at being a lord and a lady. The past, he realizes – _remembers!_ – is just over his shoulder, calling his name, hoping to trip his step should he be tempted to turn and look back.

* * *

Notes:

If anyone is interested, yes, guitars were around in the Victorian period (although they weren't as popular as the piano, certainly). They were smaller and didn't resonate as well as today's modern guitars (which were developed in the latter half of the 19th century by Antonia de Torres). I imagined Tam has a baroque guitar (c. 1600 - 1750) like the one in this painting: "The Guitar Player" Jan Vermeer (c. 1672). There are several YouTube videos of a baroque guitar being played as well.

* * *

[End of Chapter 4: Scene 2 of 3]


	138. Book 4, Playing at Peace, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Four: Playing at Peace  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Tarra doesn't look back as that blighter, Abler Masonmark, takes her hand and leads her into the orchards surrounding Crimson Harbor. Despite his need to remain hidden, Leif almost wishes she would. But, over the past few days – ever since her arrival at this harbor town – Tarra has not once looked back. She's looked up, side to side, and in front of her; Leif has watched the results of Alice's tutelage manifest themselves in Tarra's confidence and subtle awareness of her surroundings.

And yet, she never looks back.

Does that mean she is _aware_ of them? Of him? Of the ones who are watching out for her?

Or is she precisely what he's always accused her of being: a thoughtless and careless little princess playing at being a warrior?

Bayto's tail slaps Leif across the back of his knee and the lion jerks to attention. He'd been daydreaming again. Damn it.

It's just as well Bayto had been the one to catch him at it. If Mally had she would have raised holy hell over it. Yes, it's just as well she'd carefully climbed into the picnic basket Tarra had prepared for her luncheon _date_. No doubt Mally has already found her way into Tarra's cloak pocket or hood. Quite possibly, Tarra is fully aware of her presence.

Not that it will be required.

There is nothing here. No rumors. No anti-White Queen sentiments. No rebellion. No danger.

None of the concerns Setteeson had described are present here.

Leif wonders if it had all been a ruse. He wonders if the White King and Queen are in danger... but how could they be with their guard and the army close by?

What had been the purpose of drawing Tarra and himself away from Mamoreal?

He cannot fathom it. Perhaps Alice could. His lips twist into a wry grin. Yes, Alice would definitely have an idea or two about their current situation. She is never short on ideas. If anything, she is grandiose.

The only thing grandiose about this... _mission_ is the number of "friends" Tarra has managed to make, has managed to fool into believing she's an Outlandish lass and not second in line to the throne of the White Realm. For the past three evenings, Leif had lurked and listened. As had Mally and Bayto. There had been merriment and a bit of flirting and quite a lot of bad jokes and even more gossip.

But not a single word against the queen. Not a single whisper of malcontent or rebellion. Not a single, stinking, solitary one.

So, there is no investigation to be had. That is _very_ clear now. But Mally had been right about Tarra's stubbornness: of course, the girl is refusing to go home. No one had asked her, of course, but Leif can see it in the tilt of her head, the lift of her chin, the tension around her eyes. She still thinks she has a job to do.

Obstinate child.

Well, let her do it. There is no danger here. Certainly not in broad daylight in an orchard frequented by young people on their Rest Day. What could possibly happen to her there? In that happy, populated place?

He waits with Bayto in their room at the inn and watches from the window. They have a good view of the street and there is no reason for Tarra or her... _date_ to return to town by any other route. He watches as couple after couple leave town... and then some time later return. He waits as group after group of young people skip and trip their way to the orchards and then galumph back though the streets, energized and full of life.

He watches... but neither Tarra nor her... _date_ return.

"It's getting late," Bayto whines.

Leif nods even as he wonders at the difference in temperament between this son of Bayard and Bayelle's and his brother Bayne. Bayne would have made that observation ages ago along with a no-nonsense declaration about going out for a look. Whether Leif had approved or not.

"Let's go," Leif says and reaches for his cloak.

It's almost natural by now to slink through the shadows. It almost doesn't feel like the thievery he knows it is: he is stealing privacy from Tarra. He is stealing her freedom, her assumption that she is accomplishing this mission by herself, her culpability in the consequences of her actions.

But is it stealing if she never realizes he'd done it?

And is it stealing if she _knows _he's there, but never looks back to confirm so? If she gives him tacit permission to be there?

All good questions. Unfortunately, this is not the time for them. Nor does Leif possess the patience required to sort them out at the moment.

He follows Bayto's nose, which is by far superior to his own, out of the shadows of the town and into the orchard. The sun has set but the sky is still glowing. Soon, it will be dark but that doesn't bother Leif. He has his sword and Bayto has his nose.

The third time Bayto turns around and retraces the same path within the orchard, Leif can't stop himself from demanding, "What is it?"

Bayto doesn't answer. He sniffs his way back into town, around the furniture workshop, around the buildings and stores Tarra had visited the day before, and then back to the orchard.

"What _is _it?" Leif commands on a hissing breath.

"Nothing," Bayto replies, lifting his nose from the ground for the first time since they'd set out. "There's nothing. She was here. _Right here._ And then... nothing."

Leif stares dumbly at the hound's black shape in the darkness.

Bayto concludes, "She's... gone. Both she _and _Mally are just... _gone._"

* * *

[End of Chapter 4]


	139. Book 4, Children of the White Reign, 1

_**Chapter Five: Children of the White Reign  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

The next morning Tarrant finds Tamial sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, dressed and contrite but wrapped up so tightly in his own pride that his normally Orashlach-colored eyes are a dull chestnut.

"I didn't make any tea," Tam says quietly, for once remembering Tarrant's almost daily reminder not to wake his Mam. "But there's bread and butter."

Tarrant smiles and holds out a hand to give his son a bit of assistance with standing upright from his scrunched crouch. "If you'll bread the butter, then I'll tea the pot."

They conquer the kitchen and broker breakfast in serene silence and then, just as Tarrant considers that it's time to wake Alice with a warm surge of love and hope via the heart line, Tam says, "Mam really slew the Jabberwocky? She really defeated the Red Queen?"

"Aye," Tarrant tells him, delaying Alice's wake-up call. "That she did."

"The Red Queen was really... bad?" he dares, contemplating his slice of buttered bread.

Tarrant reaches out and squeezes his son's shoulder. "Aye. She was."

"You... never said anything. You don't talk about it. But I think I heard... something... maybe at the last Maigh. About Hightopp Village and the Jabberwocky..."

Drawing a deep breath, Tarrant sits down in the neighboring seat and drapes his arm over the back of his son's chair. "'Tis a very long story. And I fear you'll go off your breakfast if I tell it all now, but, aye. The Red Queen ordered the Jabberwock teh destroy Hightopp Village. An' e'eryone in it."

"But _you_ lived, so... You weren't there when it... happened?"

Tarrant closes his eyes and tells himself they're still green. Mostly. He opens his mouth to speak and then a wave of warmth, of peace, of strength and muchness overcomes him. He can very nearly feel his chest expand with it all.

_Alice..._

She's awake. Perhaps his anxiety had awakened her. He feels a little guilty about that, but he doubts she minds. No, his wife Understands.

"I was there. I was in the employ of the White Queen at the time," he explains. "Her guard was not prepared for the attack and as I was closest to her... I lead her and her steed away."

"You... chose the queen over your own family?" Tam demands with a bluntness only children can ever manage. The blade of it, made of shock, shaped with curiosity, and forged in innocence, thrusts into his heart, stealing his breath. He'd known he would have to explain this to Tam one day. He just hadn't thought That Day would be _today._

"I did."

"How come? Didn't you love them?"

"Tamial..." he replies, forcing out the words. "The reason... I lived through that day... is something I hope you will never Understand." Before Tam can work up enough contrariness to argue with him or accuse him of being overprotective or treating him like a child – which he still _is_, of course! – Tarrant continues, "Your Mam and I both hope there is never another war, another battle, another tragedy in Underland. We hope you never have to see that, hear it, live it. But if you do... if ye do, _ye do whate'er ye must teh __**survive**__ it!_" he orders his son.

Tam stares at him with eyes gone wide and pale with surprise.

"You survive," Tarrant repeats as he feels this particular instruction is more than important enough to warrant repetition. "Even if it means leaving your Mam and I behind. D'ye heed me, lad?"

"Aye, Fa. I heed ye."

Tarrant glances away. His son rarely uses Outlandish; he prefers the more sophisticated terms and intonation of Court, just like Alice. So to hear his son speak it now...

"You make me proud, Tamial Hightopp," he says, looking at his son again.

His son. His and Alice's _son._ For so long this child and Tarrant's dream of him had been forfeited to the war. And he has never been happier that Chessur had made him that utterly mad, eleventh-hour offer in the dungeons of the castle at Crims.

"Do I smell tea?"

Tarrant leans away from the table, inhaling with enough force to keep the tears burning his eyes from making an appearance. He smiles at his wife, who is leaning around the door jamb with a soft grin curving her lips. His _wife._ Dear Fates, but after that Horvendush Day he had never dared to _dream _that he would be... that he would have... that they would...

"Throeston Blend?" she checks taking her usual seat.

"Aye."

He pours for Alice and watches as she takes a sip, her eyes closing in bliss. "This is just what we need to get moving today."

"Yes, yes," he agrees. "A busy day at both ends and in be-twix."

"Filled with sparring," she continues, thinking of her apprentice he doesn't doubt.

"And hat fittings," he continues.

"And royal conferences." Even this is said with some enthusiasm.

"And haberdashery."

"And quizzes on Underlandian history," Alice continues, prying open one eye and peering at their son over the cup's rim and through the tea's steam.

Tam sighs. "I studied."

"Excellent!" Tarrant replies more out of an effort to keep the mood light than any real belief in his son's enthusiasm for his studies. "Then you'll be thick as Thackery's plum pudding with those hooligan friends of yours in no time!" In fact, they might even manage to fall _into_ a batch of Thack's plum pudding... again. And this time Tarrant would very much like to see that sight before the queen arrives and orders them to get cleaned up!

Tam frowns.

Alice hides her smirk with another _long _sip of tea. Yes, they all know that Fenruffle will not permit Tam to spend time with his friends until the lad can pass the weekly test the gryphon has set for him.

Tarrant watches out of the corner of his eye as Tam shoves the remains of his bread and butter in his mouth and then mumbles, "I think I'll go check on some... stuff before we go."

"We'll let you know when we're ready," Alice promises him as he slouches off.

When they hear his thudding footsteps ascending the stairs, Tarrant leans forward and wiggles his brows at Alice. "A finger of Batten jam says he's gone to study as fast as his poor unexercised mind can manage."

"M's, Hatter," his wife observes and then Alice's grin takes a decidedly wicked turn. She reaches across the table and – before he can protest – she collects his hand and sucks his middle finger into her mouth.

He stares at her, gapes at the sight of his finger knuckle-deep between Alice's pursed, pink lips. Slowly... _so _slowly, she leans back until only the tip of his finger is being held captive. She gives it a flick with her tongue and a nip with her teeth before she releases him.

"Mmmm... You win," she informs him, breaking the breathless silence.

"_Alice..._"

"Although, you _do _still owe me some Batten jam."

His jaw clenches as he considers all of the... ways he might Offer her some. "An' I'll make gehd on tha'," he promises.

She smiles and sips her tea. "I Know."

Yes, he doesn't doubt that she does. He _always _makes good on his Promises. And speaking of... he now has another item on his List of Things to Do:

He has business with the castle pantry and its mad guardian. One way or another, he's going to have to get Thackery to hand over one of his precious jars of Batten jam. He grins at the thought of following through on _that_ promise: oh, yes, this is going to be a busy day indeed. At _both _ends **and** in between.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5: Scene 1 of 3]


	140. Book 4, Children of the White Reign, 2

_**Chapter Five: Children of the White Reign  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

"I like the puce," Amallya informs him dreamily as she twirls a rather... _striking_ touring hat in her small hands. Tarrant narrows his eyes as if the action has the power to shield his irises from the clash of colors.

"Very... dramatic," he agrees diplomatically. True, puce is not a color he would have been inclined to apply to a touring hat, but it does have a certain appeal... "But I should think that – in this particular case – a bit of chartreuse will be necessary to balance it out."

"Chartreuse is a late spring color," she lectures him whimsically. "It won't be welcome on an early winter hat."

"It will if you ask the other colors nicely not to judge it too harshly. Here, give this a try," he says, snipping off a sizable scrap of bright green lace and handing it to her.

He keeps an eye on her for a few moments as she considers the addition he'd more or less ordered her to incorporate into her design. When she seems to be on a satisfactory track, Tarrant turns his attention back to the hat requests that have made an appearance since his last visit. He scans the forms, noting that – thankfully! – most of the courtiers have filled out the required fields appropriately:

**Hat character:** _Misanthropic_

**Wearer's disposition:** _Prideful_

**Season or occasion of wear:** _high tea, Tuesdays_

**Accompanying accessories:** _black heeled shoes with pink buckles, oyster shell necklace, soft breezes, veiled compliments and sidelong glances_

** Unavoidable mannerisms:** _smirks, ringlet twirling about the left index finger, ..._

Yes, the queen's court have been well-trained in how to _properly_ complete their hat request forms!

Tarrant reviews them and makes rough sketches in the margins to discuss with Amallya after luncheon, which should be starting soon. They'd gotten an early start and Fitzfrey had been feeling rather frisky today so they'd made the journey to the castle in record time, even with only the one horse pulling their cart. He imagines the frog footmen are even now laying out the samples of the wares the Hightoppians had produced for the biannual exchange of goods. He'd given a copy of the lists he'd prepared to Fenruffle who had assured him they would be posted just as soon as Tamial had finished his weekly exam. And from the lack of boyish shouts and thundering footsteps resonating from somewhere on the grounds, Tarrant assumes his son is still being put through his intellectual paces.

"Hm, you're right, Master Hatter," Amallya muses. "They do get along well if given proper introductions."

Tarrant returns his attention to his apprentice and smiles at the hat she presents to him, now compositionally perfect if a bit... eye-wateringly bright. "I think you'll find that is the case with most things, Miss Amallya."

"Hm... these are the rest of last week's orders?" she inquires, waltzing over to the half dozen hat boxes he'd brought with him and lifting the lid of the first.

He answers as he once again scans the new requests and sketches potential hats in the margins, "Yes. If you would be so kind as to apply your nose and sniff them for Cheshire Cat hairs, I would be most appreciative." He'd given them a thorough inspection himself, of course, but the assistance of an additional set of nostrils could only be a good thing in this instance.

He's contemplating a blustery bonnet that's meant to suit a bold lady with a blue choker and bothersome tendency to sneeze before she manages to utter the punchline of a joke when the bit of charcoal pencil in his grasp snaps in two.

He frowns at it – how uncharacteristically unreliable! – for a moment. And then his entire body suddenly spasms.

Tarrant slams his left fist – still clutching the now-crumpled orders – on the cluttered table and no doubt scraping the side of his hand on bobbins and other bits. The table shudders at the impact and he spares a thought to an apology but he's a bit busy bracing himself at the moment.

"Uncle Hatter?" Amallya asks with concern.

He tries to answer. He really does. He gasps, "I'm fine. I'm..."

_And then _he recognizes the feeling that had exploded from within him, numbing him before he could even fully appreciate it: the sensation burning along his heart line is still utterly and completely unclassifiable and all he knows for sure is that his Alice needs him. Right Now!

"I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me," he manages, pulling himself together and upright before striding for the door.

"You are excused, sir," his apprentice replies pleasantly, concerns appeased by his apparent return to Himself.

Tarrant manages to make it to the hat workshop door, open it, step out into the hall, and close it before he breaks into a run. He sprints along the second floor hall, past the main staircase and the commotion of things being carried and organized and whatnot in the cavernous main foyer. He takes a left, and then another, and then a right, and then he's ramming his shoulder against the door to the queen's office and...

"Hatter!"

The queen's shout is secondary to the sight in front of him:

Alice has Argur Frothbreath by his undoubtedly smelly and obviously hairy scruff and is shaking him with the index finger of her other hand poking him in his slimy nose.

"—not just tell me you have _lost_ an entire Champion, Argur!"

The creature brays his usual hysterical laugh. "I was be-sayin' that very thing, Lassling!"

Tarrant ignores the rhyme and, seeing that although Alice is clearly Upset she has the situation well in hand, he closes the office door... with himself on the interior side of it.

"Try again, Argur. Tell me Irondirk's message again. This time make sure you get all the words in the correct order."

Tarrant edges closer to the startled and unusually pale queen.

"Got 'em all in the right order the first time!" he screeches. "Nobody's found Champion Tarranya. Not since last night."

"And just _what _took you so long to get here?" she demands – very nearly _screams_ – in his twitching face.

"Champion Leif – right stubborn, that one! Shoulda been born a bull!" He brays again at his own joke until Alice shakes a bit of sense back into him. "Still looking! Got the bloodhound's nose to the ground! Won't leave. Refuses." The hyena produces a giggle and Tarrant winces. Surely, listening to a symphony of claws and nails and fangs on a chalkboard would be more pleasant!

"Irondirk's gonna cleave 'im!" Argur predicts. "And I'm thinking I'd like to see that!" With that declaration, he twists free of Alice's grasp. Or perhaps she lets him go. Most likely the stench of wharf-washed and wind-tangled salty fish-flavored fur has made it through her rage to her nose. He cringes in sympathy at the thought... until he realizes exactly what's been said.

He turns toward the queen as Alice starts her interrogation anew (something about Irondirk and Leif and the definition of stubborn...) and inquires in an urgent whisper, "Your Majesty, Princess Tarranya is... is...?"

"Missing," she supplies on a muchless whisper, her hands trembling. "She stepped out with a young man yesterday afternoon on the Rest Day and neither have been seen since."

"... I... I see." Unfortunately. And all angles of the situation are Bad, indeed.

"I _don_'_t_ see," Alice fairly shouts, bringing Tarrant and the queen's attention back to the... discussion taking place on the other side of the room.

"Well, that's the trouble with mice, eh? Hard to see, like."

"You are telling me you have also _lost __**Mallymkun?**_"

"_What?_" Tarrant realizes, a moment later, that the shout must have come from him as _he _now has Argur in his sights. And, indeed, despite being in the creature's face, encroaching most discourteously on his personal space, Tarrant cannot smell him past his Fury.

"I ain't lost no one!" he cackles nervously. "I'm being the messenger! Just the messenger!"

"Bollughin' boggletogs, he is. It'll do no good to skin him alive," Alice grumbles and Tarrant feels her hand press against his shoulder, urging him back. "A bath, however..."

"Unsanitary, baths," Argur insists, warily watching Tarrant as he relents, permitting Alice to urge him back.

"Tell us what you _do _know," Alice instructs him. "How did this happen?"

"How should _I _ know?" he screeches.

Alice grits her teeth. "_Where __**exactly**_ did they disappear?"

"In the Orash orchard somewhere! That's all I know!"

Alice glares at him for a moment and then turns toward the queen. "Your Majesty..."

"I need to speak to the king," Mirana intones, sinking down into the nearest seat, which happens to be the bench at her vanity.

Alice crosses the room and gives her sovereign and friend a brisk but awkward embrace. "I'll go find him and then we'll sort this out."

Tarrant can still feel her irritation and fear and aggression and worry but it is tempered with Determination now. Calm. She grasps his hand briefly with her own as she passes by and then marches out the door.

"D'ye mind if I help meself to some tea? It's a thirsty walk from the Harbor," Argur whines faintly.

Tarrant waves him toward the abandoned tea service. He notices that one teacup had been upset and is laying on its side, marinating in a saucer overflowing with milky tea. A slice of cake had been served (presumably to Alice) and yet is perfectly untouched. Yes, the queen must have just sat down with Alice for tea when Argur had been shown in...

"Your Majesty?" he asks softly, approaching the queen.

"Tarrant..." she whispers on a voiceless breath. "Tarra..."

He crouches down at her feet and collects her soft, limp hand in his. "Why was Tarranya in Crimson Harbor?" He can imagine many scenarios in which a young, energetic princess might run off with a lad... however, how an experienced soldier like Mally could also disappear at the same time... Well, _that _suggests something far more foul than simple Play.

"There... there were rumors. Setteeson said," the queen replies woodenly.

"What manner of rumors?"

"Muttermonging."

Tarrant's brows draw together. "Is that so? Against whom?"

"Me. The White Queen. Or so Setteeson said."

He nods. "But that doesn't explain what Tarra was doing... Oh. _Oh!_" _Twimble fumpt!_ But, no, no, he will not help the queen by cursing in silence! Tarrant gives himself a swift shake, blinks and returns his attention to the queen. Reluctantly, he seeks confirmation of his suspicion, "Tarra, being the current Queen's Champion... Did she...?"

"_We_," the queen corrects him, closing her eyes on a shudder. "Dale and I let her go. To investigate. Under the guise of Setteeson's apprentice."

"... I see." And he does. Finally. This is not a whimsical flight of young love or even fleeting fancy. _This_ is a right Mess, indeed. Alice's apprentice has disappeared on a mission for the queen and now it will fall to Alice to... to...

He squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to think about it Too Much.

"Tarrant..."

He looks up at the queen and is startled to see tears trailing down from her dark eyes over her cheeks.

"Tarrant, I'm so sorry. I should not ask her – ask _you_ – to do this. Not after you've given so much to Underland. The both of you... Not after all the things I've taken from Alice... _your_ Alice... but Tarra... she's my _daughter_. _Please_, Tarrant!"

"We'll find her," he assures her, chafing the back of her cool, clammy hand with his own rough fingers. "Alice and I will do whate'er we must to bring her back teh ye. I swear."

"Thank—"

And just as the promise is accepted, the office door bangs open with an undignified shriek from the doorknob and a bellow from the king:

"_Mirana! What_'_s this about Tarra?_"

Tarrant stands and moves aside to make room for the king to speak to his wife. Mirana swallows back her fear and tears and explains the situation as steadily as she can, which is far more steadily and sanely than Tarrant would have been capable of in her position. Why, if _Tam _had disappeared...!

"Tarrant," Alice whispers, pulling him toward the unoccupied balcony. Several paces away, Argur is destroying the tea service as if he expects it to be his last meal. No one pays him any mind.

"Alice," he replies. "Alice, we must..."

"I know. We will. Both Tarra _and _Mally. Although, I admit the thought of Mally being with Tarra – wherever they are and whatever trouble they are in – is a comforting one."

He considers that and nods. Yes, dormice are unfailingly useful in Tight Spots.

Alice swallows and her fingers dig into his arm. "But Tam...?"

Yes, yes, of course! They cannot leave Tam unprotected while they seek out the queen's missing daughter and their misplaced friend! "London," he replies decisively.

Alice sighs out a long breath. She closes her eyes briefly. Nods. "Yes, that's for the best. Under the circumstances."

"He'll be very upset with us for this. After the fact."

"I imagine he will. Perhaps it will motivate him to choose a trade just to get away from his barmy parents."

Tarrant giggles. "Alice. Now is _not _ the time to make jokes."

"I wasn't."

"Which is why you are so very amusing, even under dire circumstances, Raven."

Alice huffs out a breathy laugh.

"Champion Alice! I hope your good humor means you've thought of a plan for retrieving our daughter!"

Sobering, Alice turns and bows to the king who has placed his great, furry hands on his wife's shivering shoulders. "Tarrant and I will depart immediately for Crimson Harbor," she replies. "We'll find her."

"Yes," Mirana contributes. "Tarrant has already promised as much."

"Then you may expect us to deliver Tarra safe and well into your care." Alice glances at Argur. "Be ready to head back in an hour."

Crumbs splatter and tea-colored drool dribbles onto the tablecloth as he nods and snorts with nervous energy.

Tarrant reaches out and slides his palm up Alice's arm. "If you will contact Margaret and speak to Sir Fenruffle and Tam, I'll stop by the workshop – we'll need more wearables for this. As will Tam. London is chilly this time of year, is it not? And then a visit to the armory is absolutely necessary. Do you have any specific preferences in the way of weaponry?"

"No, I trust your judgment." He presses his lips to her temple and her hand clutches his wrist. When he steps back, he meets her gaze, shares what reassurance he possesses – shaky though it is – and then heads for the door.

"Your Majesties, if I might have permission to open one of the castle looking glasses?" he hears Alice say as he steps out into the hall. Yes, Alice will arrange for Tam to escape this mess. Their son will not thank them for it when he realizes what they've done. Certainly, Tarrant would not have thanked his own Fa for such blatant manipulation! But, in time, he is sure that Tamial will forgive them. Yes, in Time...

Tarrant hurries back to the hat workshop, to the bolts of fabric and shirts and trousers and underthings he must make as quickly as possible. He thinks of the armory and plans his selections. He mustn't forget the throwing knives and garrotes. For both himself _and _his wife. Two Champions. Again.

* * *

[End of Chapter 5: Scene 2 of 3]


	141. Book 4, Children of the White Reign, 3

_**Chapter Five: Children of the White Reign  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Tamial Hightopp – thwarted investigator of Uplandish intrigue and mystery – is thwarted no longer! He bites back a grin as his Mam explains with a slightly odd smile, "Sir Fenruffle said your scores were satisfactory and your Fa and I spoke about it..."

Yes, he can _taste _victory! When she'd knocked on the door and asked for a private word with Sir Fenruffle, Tam had wondered... But then he'd seen her face and the expression had been... well, it had been something that had made him think of London and Win and a mysterious note and the death of Lowell Manchester and... He'd watched as she'd pulled up a chair and had sat down with a sigh. He'd been _a bit_ nervous, strangely enough. But her words had churned up murky hope and chaotic excitement and now he holds his breath and believes that – _a__ny__ minute now! –_ she's going to tell him...

"So we asked your aunt and uncle if the invitation to visit is still open..."

And _here it __**comes!**_

"... and it is, so if you'd still like to visit Winslow..."

Tam fists his hands beneath the study desk and braces his feet against the legs of the chair to contain his enthusiasm. All week he'd been trying to figure out how to make this very thing Happen! Every spare, empty-house, alone moment this week, he'd spent in front of the mirror in his Fa's hat workshop at the manor, trying to convince the glass to open to him. He'd even looked through every somewhat magical or ritualistic book in their small library! But he hadn't given up. Not truly! Why, after finishing this stupid homework, he'd planned to find his friends and get them to help him find a way to Upland. Surely they would know something – have overheard _something _useful from Aunt Mirana – she _is _always muttering to herself about magic _this_ and potion _that_ – yes, they'd know _something_ about looking glass travel! But all that scheming and sneaking may not be necessary at all! Unless he's dreaming this, Tam is moments away from getting _permission _to go back to London! And he _must _get there! He'd promised Win he'd be there when his cousin investigates that note!

"Yes..." he says, his voice cracking with the excitement he's trying to control.

Yes, he wants to visit Upland!

Yes, he wants to see Win!

Yes, he has Things to Do Up There!

And, yes, those Things are most certainly tasks suited to Tamial Hightopp – champion extraordinaire to his friends and most feared adversary to his foes!

His Mam concludes, "Then you'd better go get your bag. And be quick about it. The looking glass is open and waiting."

Quick? He can do that!

Tam scrambles out of his seat and tears out of the library. Five minutes later, with his overnight bag in hand, his Fa is presenting him with a jacket that looks just-made. He frowns at it briefly. Something about the never-before-laundered stiffness of the cloth Bothers him. The niggling whisper is dashed to bits, though, as his Mam ruffles his hair and presses a kiss to the top of his head.

Tam grins: he's really going back!

It's almost too good to be true!

His Fa's lips curve into a smile but his eyes are a concerned peridot green. Tam doesn't take much note of his Fa's worry. Fa _always_ Worries.

"Ye'd better ge' goin' afore we change our minds," his Fa warns him.

Which is an _excellent _point!

The good-byes are fast and sloppy, but Tam is too excited to care.

"Tell Lanny and Ian I'm sorry I couldn't stay this time," he instructs them.

"We'll let them know," his Mam promises. And then Tamial is stepping through the mirror and into his aunt and uncle's house in the City. He clutches his bag, takes a deep breath and savors all the smells of the house: dust (coal dust, especially), the hint of smoke from the gas lamps which are currently unlit, books that don't whisper, carpet that doesn't curl up irritably if you stomp on it, draperies that don't billow because the windows here are meant to stay Shut...

"Tamial," Aunt Margaret says with a smile, putting aside a book and standing from her chair. "Welcome back."

"It's good to be back!" he declares, following her out of Uncle Hamish's study. "What day is it? Where's Winslow?"

Margaret laughs softly. "It's Thursday, of course. Do the days occur in a different order in your country?"

Tam frowns at that. "Well, no..." But hadn't he heard his Mam say once that Time is different in Underland? Muchier? He shrugs. It's not important. Aunt Margaret is answering his second question.

"And Winslow is currently at his lessons with his tutor. I'm afraid you'll have to accept other forms of entertainment until he's finished for the day."

"Oh... all right. Like what?"

"Well, Elaine is helping me with a quilt in the drawing room..."

Tam makes a face.

"And Townley is reading picture books to us."

"That sounds..." Completely boring! "... nice."

"You're welcome to join us," his aunt says, "or I suppose you could go up to the attic for me. I've been looking for a particular parasol that used to belong to your grandmother. I think it was put up there some time ago..." His aunt glances over her shoulder at him. "But you wouldn't be interested in a job like that, would you?"

Hm... sit around watching quilts being stitched and listening to books for _children_ or an adventure in a dusty, spider-infested, creepy attic with boxes and crates and trunks to rummage through. _This_ decision he doesn't need time to think about.

"I'd be happy to help you find that parasol, Aunt Margaret."

"Thank you, Tam," she says, showing him to his room with a dimple showing like the point at the end of the exclamation mark of her smile. "That's very noble of you to accept."

He likes being noble. He feels his chest puff up with pride. "My pleasure, Aunt Margaret."

"Yes, well. You haven't seen the attic yet. But come downstairs first to say hello and then we'll get you started on that."

Luckily, the greetings are brief since Tam and Laney don't have any new rude remarks to exchange – it hasn't even been a week since they'd last annoyed each other! – and Lee is buried in his book of nursery rhymes. It's quite some time later – a scary iron mannequin, a cobweb-covered wooden loom, a trunk of men's winter woolen underwear, and a yellowed wedding dress later to be exact – when his cousin finds him.

"Tam! You came!"

He grins cheekily. "I _told _you I would!"

"I'll never doubt you again!"

Tam laughs. And then he gets down to business. "So... do you still have the letter?"

"Of course. _And_ I found the streets on the map. We can take the Tube there."

Tam forgets to ask what – precisely – the _Tube _is when Win tells him how much the fare is and confides that he knows where Laney is currently keeping her pennies...

And, after that, there's really only one question left to ask:

Tam wiggles his brows as he's often seen his Fa do and demands, "When are we leaving?"

* * *

[End of Chapter 5]


	142. Book 4, The Secret of Crims, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Six: The Secret of Crims  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

_Tarranya has a Leif_.

Tarrant had said that to her once, a very long time ago. And it has never been more true.

Alice watches as the he-lion paces back and forth in the alley behind the Irondirk Smithery, a frightful scowl on his face. His dark mane is matted with bits of leaves and small twigs and patches of spider webs that he'd unwittingly snagged during his previous searches for Tarra or any trace of her. His golden eyes burn despite the sagging, thinly-pelted flesh surrounding them. His shoulders are tense but curved slightly downward. His feet scuff in the dirt with every other step. Alice wonders when he'd last slept. Or, rather, slept _well_.

Yes, indeed: Tarranya has a Leif. Completely and utterly despite the fact that his First Claw is still displayed on a thong around his own neck.

"Fumptwat," Davon Irondirk mumbles, nodding toward the back door of his workshop. It stands open and every half dozen seconds or so, Leif paces past. "I told 'im teh keep 'is gruffious self outteh sight." The former mercenary shakes his head, for once not at all amused. "He'll 'ave naebodae teh blame but 'imself if'n this goes 'round tauwn."

She doesn't disagree. "When did he come to you? Or did you find him?"

"Th' slurvish beast came teh me. Pounded on m'door a' th' mid'o'night." Irondirk tucks his chin down and continues sheepishly. "When he told me he'd lost th' king's daughter, I said she was prob'ly goin' a greenin' wi' a lad..."

Alice gives him a blank look at that term. Davon returns her stare with a grin that is _not_ frightening and painful to look at due to his broken and missing teeth but absolutely lascivious.

For a moment, Alice forgets the topic of conversation and marvels. This _particular_ grin had been made possible thanks to the queen and the boon Irondirk had asked of her in payment for his efforts in hunting down any and all traces of Valereth and Oshtyer years and years ago. He'd asked for an alchemedic remedy for his teeth. "I cannae expect a lass teh take me as husband wi'out a gehd set o' teeth!" he'd explained in justification. And when Alice had seen the overwhelming amount of effort that Mirana had gone to in order to meet his request, she had realized just why he'd never had the temerity to ask for the cure before.

Thus, Alice receives one of Irondirks _new _lascivious grins and _then _she realizes what _greening _must entail: grass and grass stains and the _activities_ that often lead to said grass stains and... Ah, yes.

Tarrant takes a half step closer to her and glares at Irondirk who, good humor somewhat restored, blithely continues with his narrative.

"Tha' wasnae th' thing teh be sayin' as it turns out." Davon smirks in the direction of the open door. "I d'nae think _that_ one's here on the _king_'_s _business if'n ye catch me kenment." He sighs. "Still, when he tol' me th' name o' the lad she'd gone off wi'... well, he has tha' sort o' reputation, ye ken?"

Alice closes her eyes and wishes for patience or deliverance or just a plain old miracle. As tempting as it is to speculate on the issues between Leif and Tarra with Davon, they have more urgent matters to deal with at the moment. "Argur was not very forthcoming on the details of the... incident."

"Well, ye ken Arugur. 'Tis best if'n he o'ly 'as twine thoughts teh rub toge'her in 'is head at a time. Any more'n tha' an' they'd all likely go up in smoke. _Poof!_"

Again, she can't disagree. At least Argur is making himself _somewhat _useful by sniffing around at the docks, and keeping his eyes and ears open. Until Alice completely understands the situation, it's best to post allies as far and as wide as possible.

"Tell me the rest."

"Ye won' like it," Irondirk replies, his gaze shifting briefly in Tarrant's direction. "In th' neighborin' days we been hearin' a bit o' mimsy muttermongin' 'round th' tauwn. Setteeson offered teh go teh th' queen teh appraise her o' it."

"Yes, I heard that part from the queen." Although she hadn't realized Setteeson had been selected as a representative for a larger group of concerned citizens.

"Then ye're kennin' the lass's role in aul o' this?"

"Yes. But what were the rumors supposedly about?"

"'Twas ne'er uttered in _mae_ presence, but... I heard 'twas talk o' a rebellion. A rising agains' th' White Queen."

Alice frowns. Why had Mirana not told her _that?_ "On what grounds?"

"I d'nae ken."

Tarrant says nothing. He does not even move from where he stands beside her, but she can Feel his concern and impatience. He wants to get started with the search. He's worried about Tarra, about Mally, about Alice herself... as usual.

She decides it would be best to gather _all _the facts before they charge off into the orchards. "What were the circumstances of her disappearance?"

"Ar. Nauw _tha_' 'tis th' mystery, Lassling. If'n I understood tha' frumious beast's growls correctly, we've naught but a scent trail tha' goes naewhere."

Alice turns and regards Bayto who looks nearly as exhausted as Leif. "Is that true?"

He nods and replies on a thread of a whine. "Yes. I've sniffed everywhere. The most recent scent for either of them is in the orchard and it just... stops."

"So, Mally was definitely with her at the time?"

He nods, his jowls swaying. "Either hiding in the picnic basket or... maybe in her pocket... or..."

"I'll need you to show me the path Tarra took."

"All right." He glances worriedly toward the back door and the lion man still pacing in the alley. "I don't suppose there's a sidewise exit we could use?" he mutters at Irondirk. Alice silently seconds the request. Getting past Leif to speak to Irondork had been hard enough. The lion will Insist on following them when they leave to resume the search.

The Outlander snorts. "Daen' we aul wish f'r one o' them righ' abou' nauw."

Bayto sighs and, with a longing glance at the front door which he knows he can't use – it's best to keep their presence here as inconspicuous as possible for the time being – the bloodhound slumps off toward the back door.

"An' thar's ano'her thing, Lassling," Irondirk says under his breath. "Yer Tarra's nae th' only one missin'. Many o' th' lads an' lasses di'nae come back teh their shops af'er th' Rest Day."

"How many?"

"A fair few. Mayhap thrice a ha'f baker's dozen." He swallows and mutters in a low tone, "Includin' me nephew. Th' one wi' th' way o'... greenin' th' lasses."

"The one Tarra was... last seen with?"

"Aye."

"I see. Well, let's just keep that to ourselves for the moment," she mutters, doing her best not to glance in Leif's direction.

"Much obliged, Lassling."

"Yes, well. You'll owe me for it, won't you?"

"Wi' pleasure," he agrees happily and Tarrant is very obviously _not _pleased with the man's enthusiasm.

Alice rolls her eyes. The Outlander treats her like a toy; Tarrant cannot _seriously _believe she would ever feel drawn to the fool. Can he? "Stop playing games. We didn't rush all the way here to be delayed with small talk," she reprimands him.

"Speakin' o' hastenly arrivals. Hauw _di_'ye ge'ere sae fast?"

"Bandersnatch."

Davon snorts. "Och, nauw _tha_'ll b'makin'th' rounds o' th' tauwn shortly."

"No, it won't," Alice replies. "_You_ didn't see how we arrived. No one else did, either. Trust me."

Indeed, Alice had sent Bandy off to sniff _around _the borders of the orchards looking for any sign of Tarra. No one will see him that far from town. Although, if other searches are on-going...

"Is anyone else out looking for the missing youths?"

Irondirk shrugs. "M'be. Bu' in neighborin' days, it happens sometimes they boycott a bit o' work nauw an' then. Won' be tae much concern o'er it... f'r nauw."

"Good. All the better for picking up her scent."

"Aye."

They leave out the back door and, as Alice had anticipated, Leif follows them like a scowling, growling, grumpy shadow with teeth and claws. They keep to the alleys and the darker side of the buildings, crossing the street with caution. Sunset is less than an hour away; time and daylight are of the essence.

"Wait here," Alice says to Leif and Irondirk. "Let's give Bayto a clear line."

"Alice..." Tarrant whispers and she can hear the request in his tone. No, he doesn't want her to leave him behind. Not even for a moment.

She grasps his hand, uncaring that they're working now, that they are not alone. "I'll call," she swears. Yes, when she needs him she will Call.

He doesn't like it – not if his anxious peridot gaze is anything to go by – but he lets her hand slip from his.

"Lead the way, Bayto," she says.

He does, muttering along the way. "Yes, yes, here she is. Right foot, left foot. Stepped in a Batten skin at some point. Very pungent... Right foot. Left foot..."

"Anything on the trees?" she asks, careful not to touch the trunks as she follows in his wake despite their inviting murmurings. Yes, Orash trees _do_ enjoy a good embrace from passers by. Perhaps that's why there aren't any in the White Queen's garden: rather forward trees, truth be told.

"Nah. Nothing from Tarra," he mumbles, his voice muffled by grass and fallen leaves and dropped fruit.

"How about the fellow she was with?"

"Oh, he touched almost everything."

"Show me," she requests and takes note of the trees Bayto points out.

Long minutes and about two hundred paces later, the blood hound announces, "This is it. End of the line."

"Not for Tarra, I hope," she murmurs, looking over the trees, studying the canopy and kicking aside pieces of decaying fruit with her boots.

"So... what should I do?"

"I'm not sure," she admits, inspecting the last tree Irondirk's nephew had apparently touched.

Bayto sits on the ground and whines. "Do you think they're all right? Tarranya and Mally?"

"Mally would never let anything happen to Tarra," Alice reassures him. "And Tarra is imminently capable."

He sighs.

Alice peers at a knot on the tree. It is nestled between two perfectly healthy branches and something about it seems... She leans closer and studies it, taking in the chips and scratches that decorate it and the surrounding living trunk of the tree. The breeze brushes through her hair and it touches the bark of the tree and...

Alice notices how very... _quiet _this tree is. It does not murmur as the others do. In fact, its branches do not even sway in her direction despite how very close she's standing to it.

Yes, there is something not quite Right about this tree. She looks it over again and, upon further inspection, decides that the poor thing looks... stressed. It's leaves are small, curled, and yellowed. Its fruit has fallen to the ground only half ripe and still hard as conch shells on the beach of the Crimson Sea.

She considers concurring with Bayto, but what if he tells her she's imagining this? No, she's not ready to be dissuaded. Not when this is the only hint she's found at all.

Alice returns her attention to the knot and runs her fingers over it. The tree, oddly enough, seems to stiffen, to brace itself. Feeling oddly like she's invading on the tree's personal space, Alice digs her nails into a particularly scratched crevasse. Despite the lack of leverage and with only the meager strength of her fingers, the knot... _shifts._

She stares at it for a moment before reaching for her knife. "I'm sorry," she whispers to the tree which seems to sigh in pained resignation.

"Alice? What are you doing?" Bayto asks as she carefully inserts the blade into the crack around the tree's scar tissue and wiggles it a bit.

"I think I'm..."

And then the knot pops up suddenly.

There's a series of wooden clunks and metallic clicks that resonate up through the tree right before...

"_Baaaaaw...!_" Bayto yelps and Alice gapes at the dark hole where the earth beneath had quite unexpectedly given way beneath him.

"Bayto!" she calls, wedging her knife beneath the fake knot to stop it from snapping back into place, and dives for the hole.

She blinks down into the darkness. It is totally, absolutely, completely _black_ down there and she suspects that were it the middle of the afternoon and the sun were shining directly down upon them, that fact would not be changed.

"Bayto!" she hisses and her voice echoes back to her. "Are you all right?"

Her heart line twinges; Tarrant had felt her startlement. She Calls him and sends a sheepish apology along as well. Her first reaction should have been to summon him but she'd been so surprised by Bayto's disappearance and...!

"Eugh. I'm fine. Sort of."

"Sort of? Are you injured or not?"

"Well... no, but it _reeks_ down here, Alice. I think this was a sewer... once."

Alice frowns. "How far down are you? I can't see you."

He huffs a bit as if expending considerable effort at something. "Well, I can't jump back out," he says after a moment. "And, I'm sorry, Alice, but I'd _really _like to get out of here. The stench is burning my nose."

"Help is coming," she promises him.

"Help is 'ere," Tarrant announces, kneeling next to her at the mouth of the hole. He reaches up to remove his hat, his finger twitching in the air before he obviously remembers that he had purposefully left it behind at Mamoreal for safe keeping. Alice's heart twinges in sympathy; it's been a long time since they've found themselves in a situation Not Suited To Hats.

He swings his legs over the edge and Alice places a hand on his arm. "We don't know how deep it is."

He nods and then pushes himself into the abyss.

"Nauw _this _be a shrifty mechanism," Irondirk muses, looking over the knot and Alice's knife which is still holding it up.

"Leif! One or two paws' worth of assistance would be appreciated!" Tarrant calls.

Without a word, the lion drops down into the subterranean realm.

"Have you ever seen anything like this before?" Alice asks Irondirk as the sounds of Bayto's rescue proceed without any undue exclamations or suspicious silences.

"Nae. Ne'er." He lifts the lantern he'd brought with him and attempts to shed a bit more light on the conundrum than what is provided by the lowering sun.

Alice returns her attention to the hole as Bayto's head bobs up into view. She reaches out, grasps him under his doggy elbows, and pulls him to safety.

"Thanks..." he breathes, inhaling deeply. "It's _rank _down there. Blood and decay and moldy bones."

"Do you smell it?" she calls down, concerned.

"No," Tarrant replies after a moment. "True, it's not... _pleasantly _aromatic down here, but it doesn't distract from the darkness, which I feel is a challenge more deserving of attention at the moment."

"Leif?" Alice checks.

"I'm fine," he grunts.

Alice leans back and reaches a hand out to Irondirk. "Your lantern," she demands. He obliges and she passes it down. She only has to lean over a bit – until her elbow dips below the rim – before someone takes it from her.

"Thank you, Alice."

"What do you see?" she asks, curious and concerned.

"A... tunnel, I believe," Tarrant says, his voice changing slightly in pitch as he pivots first one way and then the other. "Yes. Lined with stones. A bit of muck at the bottom, of course, as tends to be the case with dark tunnels. And here is the ground... no, door... no, hole opening latchings," he continues, finally settling on a phrase that he feels satisfactorily describes the hidden entrance. "Ah... rather brilliant!"

Despite the gravity of the situation, Alice grins at her husband's enthusiasm.

"Tarra's down here," Leif interrupts. "Let's go."

"No, no! Just a moment!" Tarrant declares. "Alice, release the latch up there. I will attempt to open it from the inside."

She hesitates. She doesn't like the thought of leaving her husband down there, of locking him in the ground, but his suggestion makes too much sense – vital sense! – for her to refuse. "All right."

Alice looks over her shoulder at Irondirk and nods for him to do the honors. The tree winces as he pulls the knife free. Suddenly, the ground swings up and snaps into place with a soft _thud!_ Alice stares as the clumps of scraggly grass and hard-packed dirt make a perfect camouflage for the trap door. Behind her, the tree lets out a sigh of relief. The poor thing.

She only has to wait a moment before the ground begins to give again, opening.

"Success!" Tarrant announces, sounding quite proud of himself. And Alice has to admit he deserves every bit of his own pride... and hers as well.

Irondirk moves closer and crouches at the edge of the hole. "A canal," he decides with a thoughtful look. "From th' ol' moat. If'n I'm recollectin' rightly, it runs out teh Gummer Slough."

"Not the sea?" Alice asks, a little startled.

"No," Tarrant replies, his voice rough with a growl fueled by the Past. "Wouldnae wantae spoil th' view."

"Aye," Davon agrees. "Sae... nauw whot, Lassling?"

Alice thinks for a moment. And then;

"Bayto, I need you to find the Bandersnatch and tell him to locate the end of this tunnel in the swamp."

"About time," Leif grumbles.

"Alice?" Tarrant asks, clearly Worried about the lack of daylight to guide them out of the tunnel at either end and their lack of provisions for an extended search. "Are you sure _now _is the best time for a rescue mission?"

The lion growls. "How would you feel if it were Alice missing?"

"I _know_ how I'd feel, Cat."

Yes, Tarrant has been in Leif's position before. Alice hastily speaks up before More can be said. "Yes, I'm coming down. We're going to see where this thing goes." She turns to her companion. "Davon, come with us. You'll probably know whomever we meet down there..."

He sighs. "If'n this be where th' lot o' them ha'been takin' off teh, aye."

"Bayto, after you find Bandy, go back to Mamoreal and tell the queen about this. Also, ask Sir Fenruffle to find the old Salazen Grum drawings. There may be more tunnels." Or, if this mission goes _very _badly, they may be requiring a bit of rescuing themselves, but Alice doesn't mention that. Still, from the pulse of frantic worry- _fear-__**denial-determination!**_ she Feels around her heart, she knows that Tarrant has once again understood what she had left unsaid.

"Find the Bandersnatch. Tell him to find the tunnel exit in the Slough. Go back to Mamoreal. Tell the queen. Ask Sir Fenruffle to find the castle plans. Got it."

"Good." Alice watches as Irondirk pushes himself over the edge of the hole. She sends Bayto a brief smile. "Fairfarren," she bids him and then she, too, disappears into the darkness.

* * *

[End of Chapter 6: Scene 1 of 2]


	143. Book 4, The Secret of Crims, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Six: The Secret of Crims  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

It's a full day for Tamial Hightopp – Upland adventurer and conspiracy seeker of the Great City of London!

The when had been decided: during Aunt Margaret's customary afternoon high tea with her embroidery club.

The how had been declared and means obtained: surely Laney won't be counting her pence in the very _near _future!

All that had been left had been to sneak out of the house – an easy task with Tam supposedly still searching for that parasol and Win purportedly keeping him company – and then transport themselves to the intersection on Win's letter.

"We'll take the Tube to Victoria Station and then make an appearance at Green Park. That way, if my father realizes we're gone and asks where we went, we can say we were there the whole time. I'll be sure to say hello to someone I know."

Simple enough.

Tamial, however, is still stuck on the actual _How _part of the From-Here-To-There Plan.

Well, that and the _smell._

"Eugh, Win. This air is _foul_."

"Is it?" His cousin sniffs audibly even as Tam coughs into his jacket sleeve. "I suppose I don't notice it so much. Of course, after spending last weekend in the country, I noticed it when we arrived. But I thought it got... better since then."

"More likely _you_'_ve_ gotten more foul to match it," Tam mutters. Win doesn't appear to have heard him.

They dodge shoppers and businessmen and cringe away from shouting stall minders. Horses and carriages clatter and splash through the muddy streets and Tam tries not to look too closely at the collection of brownish green muck that has collected in the gutters and next to the curb.

"So," he says, raising his voice to a near shout in order to compete with the noise. "What's this tube thing we're taking?"

"You don't have one where you come from?" Win asks imperiously. "It's the very _height _of sophistication."

"Sophistication in _what?_" Tam demands with a frown, not liking Win's superior airs.

"Town travel, of course. D'you think I'd tromp through block after block of _this _mess?" he asks rhetorically, waving a hand at the smelly, rain-soaked mess on the streets.

"Well, I wasn't so sure about _you_, but _I_ wasn't looking forward to it," he replies honestly. A taxi cab stands waiting on the curb and the nag hitched to lifts its tail and does his shukm _right there on the street!_

"Gross!" Tam declares, averting his eyes. "And what's all this black stuff all over everything? It looks like smoke. Was there a fire here?"

Win glances back at him and blinks. Tam gestures helpfully to one particularly noticeable example. "Oh," his cousin says, continuing down the busy, grimy sidewalk. "That's probably from the factories. They burn coal, you know. To heat the furnaces to melt metal and so forth."

"Oh. That stuff." He'd been meaning to ask about that. Yes, he'd seen buckets and baskets of that sort when he'd visited his aunt and uncle and cousins with his Mam and Fa... but... "Aren't fires usually full of wood bits?"

"Huh? Oh, well the ones at the country estate are, yes." Win pauses and glances back with a thoughtful expression. "I forgot; you haven't actually been to the London house in a long time."

Yes, their holiday visits are always made to the country estate. Tam rarely comes Up Here with his Mam and Fa for tea with Aunt Margaret or Uncle Hamish; Winslow is always in the middle of his lessons during those visits. Tam nods. "Maybe when Lee was a baby?"

Win sighs wistfully. "Ah, the good old days. I think I actually liked him a bit before he could walk. It's hard to remember that far back, though."

Tam giggles.

"So, you don't have coal _either_ in your country? Iplam, was it?"

"Yes. Iplam. And no, we don't have coal. We use fallen sticks and tree trimmings. You know, from their seasonal pruning." And, really, if coal manages to turn everything black and gritty, Tam will be happy to continue right on _not _using it.

"Seasonal _what?_" Win asks. Perhaps he hadn't heard Tam over the clamor in the streets.

"Their pruning!" he repeats. "They get mighty irritated if they have to bud without it in the spring."

Win stops in the street and looks at him. "Your mother and father get irritated, you mean."

"No. The trees." He takes in Win's incredulous expression and ventures, "Trees don't get irritated here?"

"If they do, they can't do or say much about it."

"That's... odd." Why hadn't he noticed this before at the country estate? Plenty of trees _there!_

With a wary look, Win resumes their trek. After another block of dodging black-cloaked businessmen and bustle-burdened ladies, Win leads Tam into a building and announces, "This is it. The Tube. C'mon. We have to buy our tickets."

Tam watches his cousin make the necessary purchases and then follows him through the gates and out to a platform. They only have to wait a few minutes before their transportation arrives.

"It's a locomotive!" Tam exclaims.

"Oh, you mean you actually have one of these things where you live?"

Tam scowls. "Well, not _right _where I live, but we have one. It was started just a couple of years ago. I guess there used to be one a long time ago but the Red Queen got rid of it." He scrunches his nose and tries to remember the details of that history lesson.

"The _who?_" his cousin demands, eyebrows arced and eyes wide.

Tam sighs. "Never mind." It's time to focus on the adventure at hand, anyway, so he does.

The Plan goes swimmingly – according to Win, who manages to identify several people he says are associates of Uncle Hamish's in Green Park – and Tam finds himself being introduced to a lord and lady, a partner in a company that often employs Uncle Hamish's ships, and a banker (whatever _that _is... but it _appears_ to be a rather stuffy and humorless man with a wide mustache and a very boring top hat).

Win narrates their path as they trek along. "This is Piccadilly," he informs Tam with a gesture to the wide, sloppy, and busiest-that-Tam-has-seen-yet street. "And that one there is Stratton. And here's Bolton... Ah! Finally! Here's Clarges Street."

They take their lives into their hands and risk splashing mud and horse shukm all over their trousers when they dash across the street, taking advantage of a break in traffic. Tam laughs out loud at the thought of what his Mam and Fa would have to say about _that!_ And then he sobers when he considers the punishment he would no doubt get for such an act. Oddly enough, in that moment, Tam thinks of the Red Queen again. And of the Jabberwocky and Iplam and his Fa. Tam cannot imagine that scene. He tries to compare Krystoval to the illustrations of the black, skeletal beast in his textbook. He tries to comprehend that the burnt and barren plain he'd seen a sketch of at the Mamoreal Red War Memorial had been Iplam. He just... can't.

"You coming?"

Tam jerks back to the present, to his cousin and their quest. "Of course."

They head down Clarges Street and Tam wishes for more pairs of eyes so that he might be able to absorb _everything_ as they pass by. There are bookstores and haberdasheries and pharmacies and law offices and bookkeeping services – although why you would need one of those, Tam isn't sure... perhaps it's for people who don't have enough library space for all their books?

Win puts a hand on his sleeve and tugs him to a halt when they arrive at the corner.

"This is the place," he announces.

Tam takes a look around from his vantage point on the southwest corner of the crossroads. They examine each of their four options. One is a dressmaker's. Another is a flower shop. The third is a moneylender's. The final option looks like a... things store.

They cross the street – this time with much less danger and daring – and peer in through the windows of the Things Shop. Tam looks up at the sign and reads: Marston & Eagle Secondhand Goods.

"It's a pawn shop," Win says, studying the display in through a window that is in dire need of a scrubbing.

Tam frowns. "I don't seen any pawns." Or bishops, or rooks, or knights.

Win rolls his eyes. "You won't. A pawn shop is where people bring their valuables and sell them."

"Why would they sell their valuables?"

"Because they need money."

"Why?"

Win huffs. "_Why?_" He snorts. "Maybe because it's _useful?_" Win shakes his head. "You're not going to tell me that there's no money in your country, are you?"

Well, with Win sporting an attitude like _that_ what would be the point?

"Come on," his cousin says, pulling him away from the shop's front door. "This is the place."

"How do you know?"

Win nods toward the window. "Did you see the newspapers? It's the same edition as the one I was sent. This is the place."

"Then how come we're walking _away_ from it?"

"Maybe because I was told to come alone?" Win reminds him.

"Oh. Right." Tam considers that. "But I promised I'd be there when you meet... whoever it is."

"And you will. We just have to find a way to get you inside the shop without anyone seeing."

"And how are we going to do that?"

"With..." Tam drags him around the side of the shop and into a narrow but surprisingly clear alley. "... the use of the rear entrance." Win gestures grandly at the door which displays a small, tasteful plaque: _M&E – Distinguished Customers_'_ Entrance._

Tam gapes at the door and then at his cousin. And then:

"You've been here before!" Tam accuses, feeling hurt that Win hadn't waited for him to share the adventure.

Win narrows his eyes. "Well, yes, I've been to this neighborhood before. A few months ago Grandfather Manchester brought me here to show me the new company showroom. But I've never been _here_ before."

"Then how'd you know where the door would be?"

"Because pawn shops always have a back door. So nobody gossips about lord such-and-such selling his father's sterling pocket watch to cover his card game debts. Discretion is very important to grown-ups," Win informs him. "That's what my grandfather told me."

"Discretion. Right. So, what do we do?"

"_You_ are going to wait across the street, _there_. _I_'_ll_ go in first and let you in when I can."

Tam shakes his head. "I don't like it. We go in together and I hide."

"Hm. That does sound better, actually. Ready?"

"Sure." Although he doesn't think he really is.

But then there's no time for doubts: Win is opening the door, causing the small attached bell to ring, and Tam is following him down a narrow, unpainted hall to the first open door. His pulse is pounding; his hands are sweating.

He needs to find a place to hide _before _the shop proprietor comes back to investigate his newly arrived customer... and finds not one, but _two._

* * *

Notes:

1. Tam explains how people in Underland burn sticks and windfall and the branches that are pruned from the trees to heat their homes. This may not seem like much but, remember, Underland winters are not as cold are Upland ones because, in Underland, they have several days (and nights) at a time for warmth. This is a concept taken from Lewis Carroll's Through the Looking Glass. I imagine, though that the days and nights are longer to compensate so that the same amount of time passes in Upland as it does in Underland while the Correspondence Mirrors are open between Alice and her sister.

2. Also, don't forget: there is no standard money in the White Queen's land, so the concept of money is pretty unfamiliar to Tam... as well as the purpose of a bank or a banker.

* * *

[End of Chapter 6]


	144. Book 4, Broken Compass, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Seven: Broken Compass  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

He'd _told_ them they were going the wrong way.

They hadn't listened.

Leif glowers at the lot of them as they pull up short in front of the masonry blocking their path. He folds his arms over his chest and swallows back the four words that are clawing at the back of this throat: _I told you so._

"Well," the Hatter says with forced cheer. "You were correct, Leif. We won't find Tarra on the castle side of the canal." He tilts his head to the side and studies the abrupt end of their northward path. "I still maintain that it would have been rather poetic to find a band of revolutionaries encamped on the site of the slackush castle of Crims."

Alice turns, following the lantern light as Irondirk pivots to retrace their path. "Perhaps they don't appreciate poetry much," she offers.

The Hatter scoffs. "Amateurs. _All_ revolutionaries worth a mention in the history of history are noted for their poetry. Why, when _I _was the head of the Resistance, there was a Place for poetry and rhymes and look how far _that _brought us!"

"Shut it and leave it, Hatter. In case you hadn't noticed, there's nothing here," Leif announces on a growl, stomping along in the too-slowly moving glow of the lantern. "And in case you've _forgotten_, were are _still_ looking for someone."

"Two someones," the Hatter has the nerve to correct him. "And I still say that poetry is exponentially helpful in the case of resisting tyranny."

"That is utter nonsense."

"Nonsensery is also a valuable asset to the aspiring rebel. I assure you."

Alice cuts through Leif's snarl: "I find that _very_ reassuring."

Leif just shakes his head and holds out a paw for the lantern. Irondirk hands it over without a word of protest. Miracle of miracles.

Miracles. Yes, he wouldn't mind experiencing an example of that particular phenomenon right about now. Leif wouldn't say _No_ to having Tarra safe and sound in her chambers at Mamoreal, all this Champion business forgotten and everything back to _normal._

And while he's at it, why doesn't he just wish for Tarra to stay six years old forever? Things had been so _simple_ then. Or had they?

Leif frowns as he considers barefoot tea parties and hastily assembled search posses for lost wooden swords and...

_Why_ couldn't Tarra have stayed that way forever? The Tweedles are certainly giving that very goal their best combined effort. Those boys haven't aged a day since they'd left school and refused to return, had refused any and all responsibility not related to games and adventure and arguments. They had _lost _themselves in childhood.

But Tarra had never tried. She'd always reached for more. She'd always pushed herself to be stronger, braver... more.

And he had let her.

Leif grits his teeth and breathes out a snarl. Damn his selfish soul, he had _let _her.

_Dale is right._

But of course he is. Of course he is right: Tarra had _made _herself into a mate worthy of the King's Champion. She had chosen _him._ And he had let her.

_Unforgivable._

He cannot remember when it had happened, exactly, _when_ he had started _wanting _that brash little princess to be his friend. He cannot remember when he had decided to be hers. Somehow, it had happened, though. One slowly passing day at a time they had fallen into a trap of sorts... and Leif had not noticed until she had donned the uniform of the Queen's Champion, had smiled up at him with unmistakable pride and daring, had grown up...

… and had awakened a completely different kind of Wanting within him.

Leif remembers _that _moment. He had never been so horrified in his entire life. And he had certainly never expected to feel such shame. Unlike when he had betrayed his family to save Alice's life on the battlefield, Leif had been unable to summon up even a twinge of righteousness, of honor. He had looked at Tarra – his Tarrash'rya! – and it had destroyed him.

Only later had he begun to realize the _why_ of it.

He'd avoided the truth as long as possible. He had hoped Alice and the queen's ruse to dissuade her from her chosen path would work. And only when it had become obvious that Tarra would sooner give up on _him _than becoming a Champion, only when he had realized she will do _anything _ to prove herself, only when Dale had confronted him with his crimes – committed in ignorance, but crimes nonetheless! – had Leif finally faced the Truth.

_He_ is the one who has allowed Tarra to come to this end.

And he will never forgive himself for it.

Nor can he forgive Alice for agreeing to train Tarra to be the next Champion. He has seen what the role had done to Alice. She _knows _the pain and suffering it entails. His heart aches to think of Tarra facing those horrors.

_When she does, it will be your fault._

There is no arguing with the Truth, so he doesn't even try.

"Leif," Alice whispers. "Calm down. Your breaths are echoing."

He wants to shout at her about the ridiculous order of her priorities: how can she _care _about the loudness of his breaths when they have not yet found Tarra?

But his Better Sense stays his tongue. He clenches his jaw, nods, and focuses on taking shallow, measured breaths. The danger has not passed, after all. Tarra is down here, _somewhere_, and they need to find her... without risking her life in the process.

He imagines all manner of unpleasantness: Have they bound her? Are they intending to hold her hostage? Has that blighter Masonmark dared to _touch her?_

Alice bumps his arm and the lantern wobbles.

He renews his focus.

Irondirk's stomach growls.

The Hatter counts off the paces left to their entry point under his breath in a lisping hiss. And, not for the first time, he has to admit that – in the Hatter's case, at least – madness and brilliance are a pair well-suited to each other. As with all first-time journeys, the return trip seems much faster than the initial venture into the unknown.

According to the continuing countdown, they are only thirty paces away from the entrance that leads up to the orchard when, ahead, something flickers in the darkness. Even before Alice throws out an arm, Leif has skidded to a halt.

"Torches," she mouths as a second then a third point of light glow to life in the distance.

Leif fumbles with the lantern, tries to turn down the flame before the approaching group notices, but his fingers are too broad and the mechanism too delicate. He reluctantly thrusts the lantern in Irondirk's direction.

"Put it out!" he growls.

"It's a Long-light Lantern," he protests. "Won' go out sae laung as it's dark."

Leif curses and moves the lantern behind him, trying to dampen the light. The Hatter takes it from him and there's the sound of fabric flaring and then darkness falls.

"'Twill start burning through m'jacket soon," he warns them. Leif crouches down and scuttles toward the wall. He can hear the others doing likewise.

"Retreat," Alice orders as the sound of footsteps echo toward them.

Leif shakes his head. "_No._" This may be their only chance. They will have the aid of Surprise. They might be able to end this _now – __**right now!**__ –_ and that is something he cannot back away from!

And then, suddenly, the torch bearers are close enough to be illuminated. Leif recognizes them even though he does not know their names. He's seen them around town, in taverns and exchanging friendly, harmless greetings with Masonmark.

They look neither friendly nor harmless now.

They plow through the muck with practiced ease. The torchlight reflects off of the long knives they carry on their belts. Leif remains perfectly still; they have not noticed their uninvited guests yet.

And, of course, because he'd dared to think it...

"Sommun's been 'ere!" a young man says, stopping and lowering his torch to the ground. Several others briefly study the tracks in the grime. (Perhaps there had been a symbol drawn into the muck that they had disturbed? Or perhaps it is their boots that are unfamiliar? But no! Leif realizes what it is they must be seeing: Bayto's footprints. Of course! How _stupid _of him to neglect that!)

"Bloddy bulloghin' brangergain! Search the tunnel," a young man curses and commands. Leif recognizes Masonmark's voice. He looks past the line of torchlight and spots the blighter... as well as the long knife in his hand and his grasp on Tarra's unresisting arm.

"We can't permit them to take the queen's daughter," the bastard reminds his fellows.

Leif bites back a curse. Luckily, the growl that emerges is camouflaged by Tarra's protest: "You'll find out precisely what the queen's daughter _can and will do_ if you don't stop trying to manhandle me!"

Even though her burst of bravery soothes him, reassures him that she is still herself and well and unbeaten, Leif tenses. His paw inches toward his scimitar. His gaze moves over the approaching adversaries. They are children – nothing but _children!_ – but they have Tarra!

What choice does that leave him except the only one he can bear to live with?

The scent of smoke, of smoldering fabric, reaches his nose an instant before the Hatter unveils the lantern and flings it toward the group. Gasps echo and bounce back and forth in the the small space. Bodies dive and stumble aside. Leif makes his move. He can hear Alice beside him as they race into the throng along the path the tossed lantern had cleared for them. There's a brief flash of light on steel and he knows she has drawn her broad sword.

There is no time for dwelling on the Hatter's brilliance – for in _throwing _the lantern away from them and into the group, he had preserved the mystery of their numbers and their identities – if Leif intends to take full advantage of the situation. And he most definitely does!

Fear freezes many of these young, inexperienced fighters in place as he and Alice bully through. Most have not even thought to draw their knives. Leif swings the scimitar, knocks the long knife from Masonmark's hand even as Alice grabs Tarra's arm.

For an instant, they are victorious.

And then...

"Fight! Stop them!" Masonmark screams and there's a flurry of motion in the flickering torchlight. Somehow, Alice loses her grip on Tarra's arm.

Masonmark retreats, stumbling and splashing, into the shadows with his hostage.

Leif glimpses Alice's pursuit and then an instant later, a blur of shirtsleeves and auburn hair as the Hatter sprints after her. Leif turns to follow but comes up against a circle of blades.

He pauses, glances over his shoulder and past the knives being presented to his back. Irondirk has been backed against the wall, his sword at his side. Of course the bastard doesn't want to fight. Neither does Leif! Their foes are nothing but _children_, after all!

But Tarra...

_Tarra!_

His fingers tighten around the scimitar. His gaze turns toward the darkness into which his Tarrash'rya has disappeared.

He can fight, true. And he can kill...

But these are children.

Leif cannot permit himself to cross this line. But the roar of fury...

That he does not deny himself.

It thunders down the tunnel, unsettling the knife-wielding obstacles in his path, but they do not drop their weapons. And he will be of no use to Tarra or the king or queen dead or injured.

His growls are composed of Shuchish curses as he stares into the darkness, unable to do anything more than _hope_ that Alice and the Hatter will succeed where he has failed. And that, one day, Tarra may forgive him for surrendering without a fight.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7: Scene 1 of 3]


	145. Book 4, Broken Compass, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Seven: Broken Compass  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

Alice is not happy. Not at all. Not with Leif – the idiotic _male! _(How could he think they could possibly win against so many and on enemy territory?) She is not happy with herself – why hadn't she thought to rub out their tracks in the muck! She is not happy with Tarrant – he could be charging right into a poised sword blade right along with her in this echoing darkness! She is not happy with Tarra – what is stopping her apprentice from dealing with Masonmark herself? Leif had knocked away young man's knife and even if Masonmark _does _have another weapon in his possession Alice does not doubt that Tarra is fully capable of freeing herself!

Unless...

She slips, skids, abrades her hand against the rough, grimy wall and regains her balance. Tarrant's free hand gropes for her in the dark – finding first her elbow, then her wrist – but she's moving again before he can pull her right along with him.

She tries to remember how many youths had been in the group returning to the orchard entrance. Had that been all of the missing apprentices and shop assistants from Crimson Harbor or are they being lead into another group? She digs in her pocket for a handkerchief and covers her mouth, muffles her breath in order to hear the racing footsteps ahead of them more clearly.

She listens carefully to the rhythm of their quarry's flight, hopes any irregularities will be enough to alert them to traps – trip wires, garrotes, or other obstacles – set up for the expressed purpose of injuring the uninitiated.

Alice wonders if Tarrant has been counting their paces. It's likely. They race perhaps for what seems like a Very Long Time but must not be too far because she is not winded yet before Alice can finally make out... _something _ahead.

She wants to ask what it is, that odd grayish glow – it cannot be the end of the tunnel and Gummer Slough... it's too soon for that to be possible! – but refrains. No, she needs all the breath she can spare at the moment. Questions are a luxury she cannot afford.

Abruptly, the sounds of the footsteps ahead of them change: soften to muffled thumps, pound to a halt, swish on a pivot.

Alice hears the unmistakable clatter of metal-on-metal.

She tosses aside her handkerchief and transfers her sword to her scraped hand. With the other, she reaches out and catches Tarrant's shirtsleeve. He jogs to a halt beside her. She pushes him insistently toward the wall nearest to him. The heart line twinges but he moves silently in the direction she'd indicated. Alice mirrors him, taking up position against the opposite wall, and advances toward the faint illumination.

As she moves closer, listening so hard in the darkness she thinks she can hear the sound of her own ears working furiously, Alice realizes that the light is coming from outside. There is a hole in the ceiling of the tunnel and the moon is out tonight. There is sand beneath her feet and the remains of a campfire beneath the light itself.

She moves carefully, feeling with her hand and feet, sword held at the ready. Somewhere in the darkness, Tarrant moves with equal silence and caution. Somewhere in the shadows, Tarra's abductor is lurking... with Tarra in his grasp.

How does he expect to win?

He can't. Not burdened with a hostage.

Unless...

Alice twitches her chin to the side. Denies the thought. Now is _not_ the time for it. Later... she will think on what has occurred _later._

And then a whistling _whoosh!_ cleaves the silence. Alice ducks an instant before she deduces – thanks to the slight spike of alarm and quick pulse of determination over her heart – that the attack had not connected with its intended target. She realizes a moment later, as light explodes in the center of the room, that the whistle and whoosh had been the tossing of a Fire Cracker and the subsequent ignition in the campfire ring.

The biscuit does its job, illuminating the tunnel in a glow that grows steadily brighter. Alice will think about flammable snack items and the three-second rule pertaining to dropped food later. Yes, later, she'll marvel at the Underlandish-ness of Fire Crackers.

Right _now..._

She keeps her attention localized even as two shadows converge on the opposite side of the tunnel with a crash of steel: Tarrant has found Masonmark. Alice forces her gaze away from the ghastly shadows striking out at each other against the illuminated tunnel wall. The malformed images and the very real bodies that are producing them have the power to mesmerize her if she permits herself to even acknowledge their existence. She makes a decision to trust Tarrant to handle Masonmark and _she _looks for Tarra.

And finds her.

She opens her mouth to call her name...

And spends much of that breath dodging a tossed bedroll.

"_Tarra!_" she gasps.

Her apprentice replies with a very sharp, very _long _drawn sword. A claymore by the look of it.

The alarm Alice feels as Tarra advances with purposeful steps, her eyes flashing, is not her own. It's Tarrant's.

_Concentrate on your own opponent!_ she Demands. _And trust me to handle mine!_

"_Alice!_" Tarrant hisses, perhaps misinterpreting her heart line message. He rather frantically blocks Masonmark's next thrust.

Irritated with herself and concerned for him, Alice makes an effort to Send him a measure of calm. In order to do that, however, she must first _be_ calm. Alice demands it of herself before the situation can slide into more dire territory.

"Tarra, what do you think you're doing?" Alice inquires, stepping over a bedroll, her sword poised in front of her.

Tarra pursues. "What does it _look _like, Champion?" she replies with a mocking smile.

Alice's eyes narrow. She listens as Tarrant smacks aside another attack from Masonmark and keeps her eyes on her apprentice. "It _looks _like you're experiencing a very Serious Error in Judgment."

"Does it? That's... interesting." Her apprentice cocks her head to the side. "Although not very surprising. You never were strong enough to go against my mother."

"And you fancy yourself in that role now?"

"What do _you _think?"

"I think that sword's too big for you, Squimkin."

Tarra hisses through gritted teeth, "I am not a child. As you well know."

"Then why are you doing this? We've come to take you _home._"

"_Home?_" Tarra sneers. "Where my every move is watched? Where my every decision is _controlled_ by that damn Soul Bond? My mother holds no power over me _here_, away from _her._ And neither do you!"

And with that declaration she attacks.

Alice meets Tarra's blade with her own. They circle, charge, and clash. Alice takes note of the cloak Tarra still wears. She takes note of the determination and aggression in Tarra's expression and form. Clothing that can tangle around you in a fight; an overly emotional state of mind: all are mistakes that Tarra _ought_ to know better than to make after all this time.

Alice gives ground as Tarra charges. In the hearth ring, the Fire Cracker flares. Soon, without any kindling to feed it, it'll burn itself out and they'll be cursed to darkness again. And Alice and Tarrant had better be pointed in the direction of an exit when that happens. And, as the orchard exit is... occupied at the moment, only one other option is available.

When Tarra swings high, Alice ducks under her arm, rolls in the foul-smelling sand and comes up on her feet. Now, to her back is the end of the tunnel that leads to Gummer Slough and, hopefully, the Bandersnatch. Tarra pivots before Alice can do more than find her center of gravity and sends her sword arcing toward Alice's throat.

She jerks her upper body and chin back even as she brings up her broad sword and Tarrant shouts her name and there's a _clang!_ and a clatter. Someone has just lost his weapon. She hopes that person isn't her husband.

_"I_'_m all right!"_ he Sends.

Alice slides her blade under Tarra's and flips it up. Tarra doesn't lose her grip, however. She follows the blade's momentum, is turning back for another go at Alice's throat...

And then Tarrant is _There_. Right there coming between them!

Alice curses him through the heart line as he knocks Tarra's attack away and then...

Suddenly, his body jerks and Alice's heart jumps up into her throat and Chokes her. The heart line burns for a moment before going numb... then turning cold... icy... brittle.

Alice shivers and Tarrant stumbles back into her. She raises her sword and defends him as best she can as his sword arm drops. She curls her body around his as he flinches in on himself. The force of Tarra's continued assault jars her and she has to strain her muscles to keep her guard up, to keep Tarrant safe despite his highly inconvenient position between her and the queen's daughter.

A motion to the side draws her attention: Masonmark is lowering his arm. His hand is empty but Alice knows that pose. Knows it well.

_"Tarrant!"_ she Screams in silence. It vibrates along her heart line, and the sensation is unlike anything she has ever felt. It jars and stabs her from within. She stumbles.

Tarra is relentless.

Masonmark collects his dropped sword.

The Fire Cracker sputters.

With the last instant of light, Alice grabs Tarrant's cravat, pushes him behind her toward the end of the tunnel...

And then, with a flick of her wrist, Alice _rips _the sword from Tarra's hand.

The light dies. Suddenly. Completely.

Alice does not care about making noise. Her heart is pounding, the heart line itself is a frozen river of ice shards beneath her skin, burning her with its chill. She manages to keep her sword in her hand as she stumbles backward, using her hips and knees and shoulders to force Tarrant deeper into the gloom. She pauses long enough to grope for and pick up a bedroll. And when hasty footsteps follow, she gathers her strength and flings it awkwardly at the advancing foes. Her shoulder muscles scream but not loud enough to distract her from the pain of the heart line.

Dear Fates, she has _never _felt anything like _this _before!

The bedroll fulfills its purpose, however, and Alice listens as two bodies fumble and crash to the ground. She doesn't linger. She fists her left hand as best she can in Tarrant's waistcoat and _shoves _him deeper into the tunnel.

Masonmark's curses are hissed but the tunnel amplifies them. There's the sound of scrambling, of fumbling with something wooden – a crate, perhaps – and then the whistle and _whoosh!_ of yet another Fire Cracker being dropped and allowed to ignite.

Alice slows her steps and watches as Masonmark peers into the tunnel, sword in hand. He moves as if to follow, but Tarra stops him. With her smaller hand clutching his sleeve, she says, "No. They can see us."

Indeed they can: not only can Alice see her two adversaries very clearly, but she realizes that she and Tarrant are too deeply ensconced in the shadows now for either Tarra or Masonmark to see them.

From this distance, Alice can see Masonmark nod his head once. "Aye. Bu' they won' ge' far..."

Despite the threat, he lowers his sword. Perhaps he will gather the others before continuing pursuit. Or perhaps he expects them to perish in the swamp beyond. Or perhaps he expects the injury Tarrant had received and the heart lines to...

Quietly, Alice walks backward, breathing through gritted teeth, guiding Tarrant ever closer to the exit, wherever it is.

_Let it be near!_

She prays as she has never prayed before. Something is _very _wrong with Tarrant and she fears it is due to that empty hand of Masonmark's. When the second Fire Cracker fades and its dim distant glow is completely extinguished, when she is sure that their foes are not continuing the chase (or, _not yet_, at least), Alice pushes Tarrant against the wall and silently sheathes her sword. She runs her hands over his chest, which is difficult as he seems incapable of standing fully upright. But after a moment, she feels it: the fingers of her right hand brush against a very noticeable and double-edged metal protrusion. She examines the area. The knife is lodged in his shoulder. His _left_ shoulder and...

"_No..._" she whispers, measuring the placement of the wound.

"_Aye_," he replies on a pained breath, slumping a bit further down against the wall.

She checks once more, just to be sure! She probes his shoulder with her fingers – hoping she is wrong! – but she knows his body better than she knows her own!

Her fingers trail up his shirtsleeve, over his waistcoat, following the heart line she Knows to be there... and then her fingers are stopped by the blade embedded in his flesh. The blade that is bisecting his heart line.

"What do I do?" she mouths in the darkness. Can she treat this like a _normal_ knife wound? Can she remove the blade without bringing further harm to the heart line? But how can she even begin to try to slow the bleeding if she just leaves the knife there?

His blood runs warm and thick over her fingers and she begins to feel a little lightheaded.

"Help me," she begs. "Tell me what to do."

He does. "Pull th' bluddy thing out an' pack th' wound."

Tarrant's voice, while soft, carries in its tone an Authority that she responds to automatically. She reaches up and rips her sleeves from their seams. She also uses one of her throwing knives to cut away the lower six inches of her tunic. With these scraps draped over her shoulder, she reaches for the dagger in her husband's flesh.

"I love you," she whispers. And then she _Pulls._

"_Grraah!_" The moan of agony is so soft it doesn't manage to travel past their panting breaths.

Alice tosses the offensive weapon aside and quickly folds up one shirtsleeve and presses it to the wound, wedging it beneath the stiff fabric of his waistcoat. With the other strips of fabric, she fashions a rough sling. He leans back against the curved, filthy wall, sighing with relief as the weight is taken off from the muscles, easing the pressure. Alice takes a moment to reach for the waistband of his trousers and pull out his shirt. She swiftly cuts two swaths from the hem of the shirt lengthwise. With these strips, she manages to bind the compress in place over the wound. It's far from perfect and she's sure she'll be utterly horrified once they have a teaspoon of light to see by, but it's the best she can do.

"How does that feel? Any less wretched?"

"Surprisingly... yes. A bit."

"Surprisingly..." she parrots, blinking. And it's in _this _moment that she realizes his Authority had been completely and utterly _false._ "Damn it, Tarrant. You let me operate on the heart line _in the dark?_"

He giggles... weakly. "I did do that, didn't I?"

"Brangergain i'tall," she mutters. If only he were well enough for her to go into all the ways in which what they'd just done had been unforgivably _stupid!_

However, she says something a bit more productive, instead: "Don't you _dare _go into shock on me. We still have to get out of here."

"Yes, yes. If you'll lend me your shoulder, Raven..."

Taking a deep breath to try to dispel the persistent dizziness she feels, Alice ducks under his good arm and wraps her throbbing left around his waist. The heart line still feels cold, damaged, incomplete... as if a stumble will be enough to crack it, shatter it, smash it to bits. Her heart line finger aches, her hand is numb, her arm _burns_, and her heart feels nearly frostbitten. She turns Tarrant toward the exit and begins the necessary trek. They set a mindless, steady pace and Alice takes to pinching and tickling the fingers of his right hand to keep both him _and _herself alert. He presses his lips to the side of her head regularly in thanks.

Every heartbeat seems to measure less time than it ought to: the journey to the end of the darkness can't possibly take as much time as she imagines it does, for it feels as if _forever _has passed since Tarrant had stupidly come between her and Tarra. She'd had _everything under __**control, damn it!**_

"She tried to take off your head," he murmurs, somehow reading her mind. Or perhaps simply the tension in her shoulders. Or perhaps they have been married so long that they are occasionally – like now – of the same mind. Or perhaps she had merely and mundanely been muttering under her breath. She blinks just to be sure her eyes are still open. The wooziness is playing tricks with her mind and the uninterrupted darkness does not help.

"I wouldn't have let her."

He sighs. "I couldnae help it, Alice. 'Twas nae under my control."

She leans her temple against his cheek and acquiesces. They both have their own personal limits and nothing will come from arguing about it now. Now they exist one step at a time, moving closer to what they hope will be the end of their trials.

"Bandy will be waiting," she assures him. He nods.

It's a very long time before the pinpoint of weak, glowing light ahead brightens with the coming of dawn. They trek closer and the pinpoint becomes the size of a ship's window... and then a tea table... and then they are there, standing on the rim of the tunnel and, with a relieved sigh, Alice leans Tarrant against the slimy, moss-covered wall.

Ignoring the stagnant stench of the swamp, she takes a moment to inspect his bandages and the sight of him is even more horrifying that she'd imagined. Both his shirtfront and the whole left side of his waistcoat are soaked dark with blood. She frowns at the color, for it doesn't appear to be as... bluish as she'd expected. She cuts more fabric from the hem of his shirt – a persistent breeze will be more than enough to show off his pale belly now! – and replaces the soaked compress. She reties the bindings across his chest and over his shoulder then adjusts his sling. He dozes through the entire procedure, still bracing himself against the curved wall of the tunnel.

"Don't fall asleep," she orders him. "I'll go get Bandy."

Alice wades through the muck of the swamp, pushing her way through saw grass and trying not to trip over willow roots and into bogs. She struggles as far from the tunnel entrance as she dares but she does not see the Bandersnatch. It takes her fogged, starved and pain-wracked mind several minutes before she realizes that she cannot find the Bandersnatch because there _is_ no Bandersnatch. Not here, anyway. Not waiting for them.

No Bandersnatch, she realizes on a full-body shiver, means no rescue. It means they are Alone.

And Tarrant is still bleeding. The heart line is still burning. Inconceivably, their tribulations have only _just begun._ Mind numb, Alice turns and retraces her muddy, water-filled steps back to the tunnel.

"Wha'tis i'?" Tarrant asks, his words slurring together. His eyes are unfocused but he can no doubt see her pallor and tension clearly enough in the morning light.

She fists her left hand and tries to ignore the agony searing her through the heart line. It's getting proportionally more difficult to do with her increasing exhaustion. "No Bandy," she replies, too tired to be tactful.

Tarrant closes his eyes, sighs out a breath in defeat.

Seeing that, Alice summons a surge of... _something._ She stumbles, wobbles, weaves toward him and shakes him urgently, if a bit weakly. "No! _No!_ And don't you even _think _about sitting down now! I'll never get you back up on my own. And I _need_ your help."

"You know..." he lisps on a wispy breath, "that I would give you anything you desire, my Alice."

"Good. Because I need you to be strong for me now," she informs him in a tone she wishes was as steely as it ought to be. "We can't stay here. Masonmark and the others will come looking for us eventually. We have to keep moving."

"Oh, Alice..." he moans. "Ask me another..."

"We _have to!_" she commands.

This time, when he sighs, it is not a pleasant sound but it is, thankfully, _not_ an admission of surrender. "Forgive me, Alice. Of course we must. Of course... Where shall we go?"

Alice is grateful he is too worn out to consider that very carefully. If he were capable of his usual brilliance, he would have already worked that out for himself. And he would _not _have been happy about the answer. No, not in the slightest.

"Trust me?" she nearly begs. She's sure she'll have quite a bit of explaining to do once they arrive, once he has received medical attention, once he is recovering. And when that time comes, she will gladly endure his fury. So long as he makes it to that moment, the rest is inconsequential.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7: Scene 2 of 3]

* * *

Notes:

Fire Crackers. Heh. I couldn't resist. Especially in conjunction with the Three Second Rule. Of course, if you _did _drop a Fire Cracker and pick back up in under three seconds... well, I wouldn't be surprised if it caused you quite a bit of Heart Burn. (^_~)


	146. Book 4, Broken Compass, 3 of 3

Warning: This scene is **rated M** for reference to erotica.

_**

* * *

**_

_**Chapter Seven: Broken Compass  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Tamial Hightopp – the master of espionage, warrior of truth and justice – had needed a place to hide. Luckily, the room Win had chosen had offered several. Tam had forgone the obvious under-the-tablecloth location and crouched behind a screen, wedging himself between a cabinet and a sizable stack magazines to wait. He listens to the sound of his cousin's footsteps as Win paces back and forth in the cluttered room. Taking in what there is to see, Tam peers at the cover of the topmost magazine and... gapes.

The image on the cover is... _Oh! Ah, um... well!_ He ought to be embarrassed even seeing a woman who looks to be his Mam's age with her bare breasts spilling out over her corset but... he thinks his eyelids might be permanently stuck open, actually.

He leans toward the edge of the screen, tearing his attention away from the mostly not-dressed woman on the cover of the magazine in order to call Win over – his cousin had _got _to see _this!_ – when, suddenly, a grumpy-looking, gray-haired man wearing spectacles stomps in.

"What do you think you're doing in here!" the man blusters and Tam flinches quickly behind the screen, his guilty conscience biting him on the scut just like his Mam has always warned him it would should he let his Curiosity get the better of him.

"This shop doesn't cater to _children!_ Get out!"

What happens next, Tam is sure, guarantees his cousin a place in Heroic Infamy until the End of Time:

In a firm, commanding tone, Win announces, "I'm here about the newspapers in the front window, sir! And I don't expect you to _cater _to me unless you're the one who sent me _this!_"

Tam hears a slight rustle and he imagines Win pulling out the envelop he'd received over a week ago and holding it up as if waving one of those lace fans of Aunt Margaret's. Tam has no idea if his cousin actually does that, but it _is _a completely Epic visual so he lets himself enjoy it.

"And if you _are _the gentleman who sent me this, I would very much like an explanation!"

Tam has to press his hands to his grinning mouth to keep from cheering him on. Grinning, he mouths to himself, "I think I've figured out what trade I want to take on." Yes, if being as Awesome as his cousin can be considered a trade, then Tam is going to learn it!

"Ah... Well. I see," the shop's owner replies grudgingly. "Have a seat there. I'll contact the man you'll need to speak to." Tam listens to footsteps retreating from the room into the hall. "Wait at that table and _don_'_t_ _touch __**anything**__!_" is the final command.

The door slams shut. Again, Tam scuttles forward and peers around the edge of the screen. "Hey! Win!" he whispers to his cousin's back.

"What?" Win demands, turning in his seat, looking pale and nervous and not at all heroic, but that doesn't erase Tam's memories of a few moments ago. Nor does it shake his admiration.

"You were _great!_"

"Thanks!" Win grins.

Tam smiles back. Then, remembering what he's sharing the space back here with, he glances over his shoulder and pulls the first magazine off the stack. "Look at _this!_"

"Holy...! _Tam!_"

"I _know!_ There's a whole _pile _of them back here!"

Win glances over his shoulder at the door, then turns back around and whispers, "Put one in your vest!"

"_What?_"

"C'mon!" Win whines. "Just one. No one will notice!"

"_I will!_"

"Please?"

"Well... all... all right."

Win squirms in his seat, doing a rather frenzied half-Futterwhacken sort of dance. Tam giggles, rolls his eyes and turns back to the stack. He flips through several, finding one that makes his jaw drop and he actually wonders if a person's eyes _can_ pop out of their head.

"He~llo..." he murmurs to all the bare womany flesh on the cover of the magazine. Hastily, he tucks it under his vest and the wedges it into the waistband of his trousers. The magazine is guilty stare on his back, but he doesn't have time to suffer much nibbling from Guilt this time. The door opens once more and the man who speaks _this time_ is definitely _not _the shopkeeper!

"Mr. Winslow Manchester. It's an honor to finally meet you."

Tam listens as Win stands up, pushing his chair back noisily. "The pleasure is mine, sir."

"Hm. You know, it is _startling _how much you resemble your late father."

"I... um, thank you, sir."

There's a contemplative moment during which Tam is sure his heart is going to explode from the oppressive silence.

"Please. Have a seat, Mr. Manchester. You know, I wasn't sure if you would agree to meet me. You are an uncommonly brave young man."

"Th– thank you, sir. Um, what may I call you?"

The man seems to consider that for a moment. Tam _itches_ to get a good look at him but fists his hands and forces himself to stay hidden.

"You may call me... a friend."

Win pauses before replying. "I'm afraid I require your name, sir."

Tam blinks, his admiration for his very muchy cousin growing by the minute.

"You require nothing, Winslow. You don't mind if I call you by your Christian name, do you? Ah, very good. Now, Winslow, everything you _require_, you are already holding in your hands."

"This?" Winslow replies, obviously not believing _that._ Tam smothers a snort of agreement. He listens to the crinkle of aged newsprint as Win takes them out and glances at them again

"Yes. Those. They're fairly self-explanatory."

"So... my dad... Lord Ascot... he really fought a duel with my father?"

"Yes. He really did. A dreadful affair." The man shifts and his chair creaks. "Did he tell you what his infraction was?"

"Uh, well..."

"No, I didn't think so. Hm. Well, let's consider the facts, shall we? Your mother, Margaret Kingsleigh, was married to Lowell Manchester. And then, after his unfortunate death... she married Lord Ascot, didn't she? Now, you're a bright lad. Don't you find that suspicious?"

"Well, I suppose so..." Tam listens to his cousin thinking. "So, you're saying they fought over my mother?"

"May duels are fought over the love of a woman."

"So... did she know? My mother?"

The man chuckles. "What do _you _think, Winslow?"

Silence answers that question. Tam struggles to think of a reply himself but nothing comes to him.

"Did you notice the dates?" the man drawls.

"Yes. So... my father really died on the ship to America?"

"Perhaps he did. Lord Ascot's family is _very _wealthy, you know. And the ship was one of his. The men aboard were loyal to him. If he wanted the younger Lord Manchester – _your father –_ to... disappear..."

Tam hears his cousin swallow thickly in the expectant silence. "Oh."

"Indeed. Many things are possible for Lord Ascot. Do keep that in mind."

"But... I can't...! No!" Win decides hotly. "I don't believe this! He wouldn't. He _wouldn_'_t!_"

The legs of the man's chair scrapes against the floor as he stands. "Be careful, Winslow. Associating with people who command a great deal of money and power can be... perilous."

"But... _wait!_ What if I have more questions! I mean... what happened at the duel? How do I know you're telling the truth?"

"I suppose you don't," the man answers in a thoughtful tone. "But what possible motivation would I have for bringing this to your attention?"

"Er..."

"Precisely. And as for the details of that duel, I suppose you could ask Lord Ascot... if you think he'll actually tell you the unvarnished truth."

Win has no reply to that. Neither does Tam, actually.

The door opens but the man pauses before departing. "Take care, Mr. Manchester. And if you should wish to speak to me again, please ask the shop proprietor to fetch me. I've left instructions for him to do so."

"All... all right."

"Very good. Good bye and, until our next meeting, _please_, take care."

The door shuts and the room is so silent, so still that Tam wonders if Win has disappeared. He dares to lean out around the screen and sees his cousin staring at the pair of newspapers spread out on the tabletop. He moves to stand and the magazine jabs him between the shoulder blades. Frowning, he pulls it out and considers the uncovered woman on the cover. For some reason, the image upsets him now, although he can't really say why.

He replaces it in the stack and approaches his cousin. "Come on, Win," he says, pulling on his cousin's sleeve. "We should go before the shopkeeper comes back."

Gazing blankly ahead, Win simply nods.

Tam gathers up the newspapers and tucks them back inside the envelope. With a hand on the other boy's arm, he leads him down the hall and toward the door. Just before he opens it, he hesitates. Is the man outside, waiting? Will he see them both and realize that Win had not come alone after all?

Tam bites his lip and dithers. It's not until he can hear the sounds of the shopkeeper moving precariously close to the door separating the shop proper from these back rooms that he dares to open the door and haul his unresisting cousin outside. And he continues hauling him right back to Green Park.

"Sit down," Tam orders him, pointing to the base of a tree. Win does. Tam slumps to the ground next to him and for long moments, they contemplate the late afternoon light on the green grass, the passers by, the completely normal (if grayish and somewhat smoggy) day around them.

"Do you think my dad... Do you think he really... did those things?" Win finally whispers.

Tam huffs out a breath and replies brashly. "I can't even imagine it." And _that_'s really saying something.

"You couldn't imagine him _in a duel_, either," Win reminds him.

Tam scowls and searches for something reassuring to say.

But, for the life of him, he can't think of a single thing.

* * *

[End of Chapter 7]

* * *

Notes:

Yes, visual pornography was _very_ available in Victorian Era England.


	147. Book 4, Last Resort, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Eight: Last Resort  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

One foot is placed in front of the other. One step is suffered at a time.

Alice can no longer feel their plodding progress itself, even as they make it. The cold, sucking mud has long since drawn all feeling out of her legs from the knees down. Her hips and thighs and back compensate for the lack of sensation by screaming in agony as she pulls one foot out of the muck, thrusts it forward, sinks it back into the marshy earth, and then lifts the other.

She can only imagine how Tarrant is bearing this.

Reaching up, she yanks on his hand again where it dangles in front of her chest. She's too lightheaded – perhaps from lack of sleep although that has never affected her this strongly before – and too shaky – from pushing her body past its limits, no doubt – and too exhausted to be gentle with him. At this point, she's just trying to remind him that they're both still Alive. Loving and teasing touches will come after they've made it through the Slough.

She fairly claws at his clammy, mud-splattered, grimy hand. Tarrant fumbles until his fingers grasp hers and although he does not speak – he can barely keep his eyes open for any length of time! – he does respond with a painfully strong grip.

If she weren't incapable of stringing two words together, she would have thanked him for the discomfort. Anything other than the monotony of their trek is welcome at this point. _Anything._

"Tam... safe," he rasps suddenly.

Alice blinks, breathes, and winces as she pulls her left foot out of the muck. A few steps later, when the meaning registers in her brain, she nods. "Yes."

"... good," he points out flatly.

"Very." Yes, it is _very _good that they had decided to send Tam to Upland. He'll be safe there. Margaret will look after him. Hamish will lecture him. Winslow will corrupt him. Yes, Tam is fine.

"Son..." Tarrant grunts and Alice thinks she might have actually heard a sprinkling of emotion in his tone. "So glad. Thank you, Alice."

She takes one more step... one step which Tarrant does _not _take with her... and stops. "No," she tells him, finally understanding what he's trying to say. "No quitting."

She tugs weakly at his arm. He shuffles a bit in the mud and stops again.

"So sorry."

"Shut up and _walk_, Tarrant!" she hisses, hot fury flaming through her muscles, reanimating her. She knows it won't last and when it burns out she'll be even worse off that she had been before. That doesn't stop her from taking advantage of it. "Are you going to let me _die __**here**__?_"

He raises his eyes – a frighteningly dull gray – to her face and stares at her.

"You quit; I quit," she threatens.

Slowly, he shakes his head. His long auburn hair is matted and tangled and looks utterly foul from where he had permitted the slimy moss hanging from the skeletal branches of the half dead willow trees to drag over his head and shoulders. He had been too tired to try to duck or dodge them.

Alice continues her onslaught and there is no room for sympathy in her attack: "Will you make our son an orphan? What was the last thing you said to him? Did you tell him how much you love him? Did you tell him he'd never see you again?"

"Alice..." he wheezes, pained. His face twists with such agony she doesn't doubt she'll feel guilty for torturing him like this... later... when she has the energy to spare for it.

"Either keep walking or let me fall into the mud, Tarrant."

"Twimble fumpt," he curses and begins slogging forward again. Alice grimly joins him, taking note of his colorless state. She can even see the pinkish shadows of lingering stains on his once-again-too-white face. She has a fleeting thought for checking his wound, wonders how much blood he has lost, but there is nothing she can do to improve his state by expending energy on either.

"Ten," she announces, completing a step. And then another: "Nine..."

"Eight," he gasps.

"Seven..."

They count down to one and then Alice starts over again. Over and over and over they count down from ten and little by little the ground firms, the trees thicken, until – suddenly! – she stumbles against Tarrant, scrabbling at his waist in a futile attempt to keep herself upright as her feet hit what feels suspiciously like a hard-packed dirt path. The solid surface beneath the mud-saturated soles of her boots jars her knees and she squeals with the vibrations as they run up her aching spine. Tarrant's right hand fists in the remains of her tunic and keeps her from falling flat on her face.

"Sorry. Sorry," she mutters, climbing shakily back to her feet. She tucks herself under his arm again, noting that he'd locked his knees to stay standing. They have to get moving again or he'll pass out right where he stands.

Alice uses whatever is close at hand to pull them further along the path.

"Familiar," Tarrant whines as the path begins to slope upward through the scraggly forest of foliage-less trees.

"I know."

"Alice..."

"I know."

"Won't help..."

"He _will._" Or else.

"Impossible."

"Only if you believe it is."

Alice sets her jaw, ignores the oscillating torment of shattering cold and frightening numbness along her heart line, and nearly _drags _Tarrant along the path. They pass intersection after intersection but Alice continues stubbornly south. She conserves her voice, struggles to plan her strategy but her thoughts are slippery and every tactic she considers turns into a threat or a plea. She can only hope she performs better than she thinks when they arrive.

And arrive they do. Tarrant is shuddering, shivering, swaying on his feet as Alive pounds on the door. The effort is only possible with the aid of her entire body. Tarrant has no strength left to offer. He is spent and standing only because Alice had leaned down and locked his knees into position herself before she'd thrown herself at the castle gate.

She pounds on the door, screams to the midday sky... or, at least, she thinks she does. In all honesty, she cannot be sure.

"Prince Jaspien!" she pleads, all thoughts of threats long since evaporated. The heart line alternately burns her with cold, sears her with heat, and numbs to nothing, which is the most frightening sensation of all.

She slumps against the door, cries out when her knees hit the hard-packed dirt, and sighs when the door swings open. She looks up and into the unfeeling face of the man who had once lusted after the White Realm, had participated in Alice's capture and had held Mirana against her will... She looks up into the face she hates more than any other in all of Underland.

"Please..." she begs, swaying, struggling not to fall prostrate on the ground. Although it won't hurt her case, she doubts she'll be able to get back up again.

Jaspien regards her for a moment that seems to warp into an eternity. She pants on the threshold of the only available haven for _miles_, too tired to plead, too exhausted to argue, too dizzy to even keep her eyes open for more than an instant at a time.

Finally, the gray, indifferent man replies, "If you can get him to a bed, I will fetch what medicines I have."

She very nearly passes out with relief right then.

"However..." he muses softly.

Alice holds her breath, wills herself to concentrate.

"You will owe me a boon."

"Name it," she whispers despite her dry tongue and cracked lips.

He does.

"Agreed." She would have agreed to anything to save Tarrant, so the concession is not difficult to make. No, not difficult at all.

* * *

[End of Chapter 8: 1 of 3]


	148. Book 4, Last Resort, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Eight: Last Resort  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

Irondirk, the only one of them who both serves the White Queen _and_ can identify every one of the rebels, sits on his bedroll with his bound hands in his lap. If only circumstances permitted him to make his report to the queen, he could have quite possibly been rather heroic, but here... now... the man is more or less useless.

Leif scowls at everyone, his golden eyes roving over the occupants of this room-ish section of the tunnel, stubbornly memorizing their faces and maybe even their individual infractions in the event that one of them is stupid enough to let him near a weapon. At the moment... that is unlikely.

Yes, things are looking pretty damn _Bad_ at the moment, Mally assesses with brutal honesty. At least she has not been discovered. Yet. She dares to poke her head a bit further out of the cloak hood as movement at the edge of the campfire draws her attention.

Little is being said just now, so she lets her attention wander. Unfortunately, it does not wander anywhere Pleasant; she glowers across the softly illuminated space, their prison, resenting it.

This place will _ruin_ her spotless service record. She is _sure_ of it.

And, to think, just yesterday – or had it been the day before yesterday? – she had been enjoying rather optimistic thoughts:

One minute, Mallymkun had been riding in a clever fold in the hood of Tarra's cloak, seriously considering indulging in the fine weather she can sense on the other side of the woven wool, wondering if she dares poke her nose out for a snuffle of richly-scented, sun-warmed, gluttonously over-ripe Orash orchard air...

One minute, she had been convinced that the rumors of a potentially dangerous movement against the White Queen must have been a product of Setteeson's glue-addled imagination (that workroom _had _looked rather poorly ventilated)...

One minute, everything had been fine, well, under control...

And the next minute...

Well.

Well!

_Well!_

Mally had very nearly shouted that exact declaration, her thoughts skittering with panic, her mind spinning in the darkness of the wool. Weightless, helpless, she'd scrabbled to clutch the fabric in her paws to anchor herself.

It hadn't helped.

Falling...

Falling...

_Falling..._

And then a _very_ sudden Stop!

Luckily, Tarra had landed on her scut and not on her back, otherwise the day might have turned out even Worse for the dormouse riding in the hood draped down her back between her shoulder blades. (Not that Mally is having a callaycious time of things at the moment. No, there is not callou-ing or callay-ing to be done _here!_ _Now!_)

Mally had taken a deep breath in relief... and had nearly choked on the noxious fumes of something rancid, rotting, rank.

Perhaps they _had_ fallen down a well... but, from the smell of it Mally is Sure it is not of the Treacle variety!

No, this is most definitely _not_ a Treacle Well. She had not been spared the scent of the tunnel; it had seeped through the tight weave of the cloak more swiftly than a rainstorm deluge. _Ar_, Mally winces, wishing she could close her nose, _a Red Rule moaty-muck water deluge!_ It had made – and still makes! – her nose twitch and her eyes water despite the handkerchief she had applied to her face.

She turns her attention back to the present circumstances and huffs. Despite the sand and sawdust that had been packed down onto the floor in this particular section, the ground, the air, _everything_ still smells—

"Frumious!" she mutters to herself in abject disgust, clinging to the square of linen pressed over her nose, and suspects she'll have rather vivid sensory nightmares about this place.

Mally reluctantly climbs out of the hood, despairing that her boots will ever smell pleasantly of leather and polish again... then scolds herself for such vain thoughts in the face of their... Situation. She is a Dormouse with a Job To Do! She returns to her survey of the inhabited portion of the tunnel, counts the bedrolls, and notes the stack of pots and barrels of water.

Stomach rolling at the sight, Mally cringes at the thought of putting anything in her mouth _here_, wherever this foul, frumious Here is! _How __**do**__ up-right folk tolerate such filth and stench?_ The state of their sense of smell must be woeful, indeed!

There are coils of rope and a wheelbarrow. And beyond the light of the campfire around which more than ten youngish people have gathered, Mally can see something glimmering in the darkness. Several somethings. Long and straight and metal with a sharp edge...

Wary of the youths circled around the campfire – and especially wary of Tarra's obvious comfort amongst them – Mally skirts past and investigates those sharp metal somethings. Unfortunately, they turn out to be broad swords and spears and there are quite a _lot _of them.

"Oh, _dear..._"

As that seems to sum up the situation nicely enough, Mally turns her back on the weapons she can do absolutely nothing about at the present time and turns her attention toward her _other _concern, her _original _concern: Princess Tarranya.

Mally's ire rises at the sight of her _now_: Princess Tarranya, the Champion of the New Resistance.

It boggles Mally's mind how things have come to this. It is... She is...

Unbelievable.

Unbelievable but True. How can Mally ignore the evidence? Tarra had not only offered to fight with them, but she had _told _them how to issue an Intention to Do Battle to the White Queen. She had _educated_ them on how to use the Rules of Wartime Engagement to their benefit. She had heard it with her own ears! (And a dormouse's ears are sensitive, indeed!)

The only thing Mally can't quite understand is _why_ Tarra had neglected to warn them that the queen would be sending a search party. No, she had not told them that. Perhaps because Tarra had never realized she'd been being watched this last week... ? Perhaps Mally and Bayto and Leif had done their jobs Very Well, after all!

She wishes she could feel more proud of that at the moment, but how can she? Tarra had not seen them, had not realized she had not been alone and without Friends; she'd gotten herself embroiled in a rebellion instead.

Oh, the king and queen are not going to like this! Not one bit!

Well, once they hear the truth, that is. And how Mally intends to send them a message is still a detail she hasn't managed to work out yet. She is torn between remaining here, with Tarra and Leif, and trying to scurry back to Mamoreal. But even taking her fastest scurrying speed into account, Mally doubts she would arrive with this information in time to be of much use.

She doesn't like it, but even doing Nothing _here_ is more useful than wasted energy.

Alice and the Hatter may not know the Details, but they know enough. Yes, they will escape to Mamoreal and tell the queen and...

"We aul 'ave our reasons f'r wantin' this war," Abler says suddenly, parting the thickened silence. He speaks quietly – too quietly for his voice to echo – but everyone seated at the campfire listens. "Bu' mos'ly, we're keen teh fight f'r the sake o' our Fa-s an' Mam-s." He takes a deep breath, stares into the fire. "I mae case, 'tis m'uncle." He nods in Irondirk's direction. Mally turns to catch the man's reaction: a flash of temper in his eyes, a clenching jaw, the griding of his new teeth. But he does not interrupt.

Masonmark continues, not even looking over his shoulder at the object of his speech, "He was a fighter once. Strong an' proud. Nauw he makes carvin' knives, candlesticks an' dress mannequins."

"A shame worth weepin' o'er," a young man murmurs. Several others nod.

"'Tis b'cause o' the White Queen he can ne'er pick up a sword again."

"How so?" Tarra whispers back.

Abler glances at her. "Aye, I doub' they wouldae tol' ye th' truth o' it. Ye see..." he begins with a deep breath. "'Twas some time ago... mayhap o'er fifteen years when Outlanders were proud warriors. Times were hard, though, an' many 'ad teh fight f'r a wage. Like m'uncle. Like numerish uncles an' fa'hers an' bro'hers..."

There are a fair number of nods at this.

"They took work where they coul' find it, an' they found it wi' a nobleman who sided agains' th' White Queen. A visionary, tha' man. Mustae seen her f'r who she really is."

A round of Aye-s follows that speculation.

"Bu' on th' day o' battle, the White Queen an' her Champion used th' most slithy, shrifty means teh win. Faced wi' death 'r throwin' down their weapons an' swearing _fealty_... well. 'Twas nae choice, really."

The silence that follows in the wake of this is one filled with grief. Mally has heard silence like this before. It is the silence observed in honor of the dead. But what do they mourn? Because of Alice's Uplandish plan, _no one_ had died that day! In fact, _Peace _had been made! Surely they cannot be mourning the very peace that has made their lives possible?

And what's this about a _nobleman?_ Mally scrunches her face into a scowl that – for once – has nothing to do with the smell. Do they really believe that Valereth, Oshtyer, and Jaspien had had the _right_ of things back then?

Mally wishes very _vigorously_ to introduce herself and her very sharp hat pin sword to the man or beast who has been _manufacturing _history! Why, there'd been no mention of those three greizin'-grommers' bid for power! No one had mentioned the crimes they'd committed: kidnapping the queen and Alice and Worrying the Hatter! Why, for that last offense alone, Mally had been inspired to start a skewered eyeball collection!

It is _impossible_ for these _children_ to believe the White Queen is their enemy. It is _ridiculous_ for them to insist that either the queen _or_ Alice have done anything other than give their families a Future! They are, each and every one of them, _dreadfully _mistaken! Mally _knows._ She was _there_, after all! She is a witness to that very moment!

She realizes she's marching toward them moments after she begins stalking. Regaining her senses, she ducks behind a bedroll and bites her lower lip to keep herself from railing at them. Mally takes a deep breath, notes that this bedroll could do with a good week and a half of airing out, and then peeks around the edge at the group seated around the fire.

"Nauw ye, yer majesty," Abler says. "Whot's yer grievance wi' th' queen?"

"It's personal," Tarra replies stiffly.

"As is each o' ours," he reminds her in a stern tone.

"The king and queen..." Tarra takes a fortifying breath. "... are wed by Soul Bond."

_This_ seems to upset and startle several amongst the present company.

She continues, "I knew what that was supposed to do, how it was supposed to control the minds and hearts of their children... Maybe I always knew that they were... that I was enslaved. That I wasn't my own person. Maybe that's why I wanted so badly to come to Crimson Harbor. Maybe I sensed that I could be... free here, away from them and the power of the Bond. And now I know it's true. It's _all true!_" She sends a brief, furious glare in Leif's direction. "They had me followed, knew when I disappeared... and tried to force me to go back. Well, I _won_'_t._ Their control over me is Finished."

Again, they observe a Moment of Silence. Abler is the one who gathers their collective attention once again. "We cannae stand f'r the White Queen's rule any launger. Ye'll 'ave yer vengeance, Tarra," he promises.

Tarra laughs. Bitterly. "Oh, yes. Vengeance. By way of battle. What a grand idea! Nineteen of us against the White Army? How can we _not_ be victorious?"

"There's a fair few more o' us than who ye see 'ere."

"Is that so?"

"An' besides, whot were ye sayin' abou' issuin' a Champion's Challenge? Ye d'nae need a great army f'r that."

"No, I won't but before I step out there and expose my... _true_ allegiances, I want to know exactly who'll be standing with me."

_This_ is met with quite a bit of angry muttering. Abler replies, "I willnae tell ye our true numbers."

"Then find yourself another Champion."

Abler growls, "There be nae need f'r tha'. Ye'll figh'."

"Oh, will I? What makes you so sure?"

"Ye're 'ere, lass. In _our _territory," he reminds her darkly.

"And you'll do what? Keep me here if I decide I don't want to be your Champion after all? You'll be no better than the queen herself to get what you want?"

Abler actually rears back as if she had struck him in the face. "... Nae. _Nae._ We will nae do tha'."

"I'm glad to hear it. It's nice to know I'm not trading one bucket of worthless rath spit for another—" By the pitch of Tarra's inflection, it's clear that she has more to say, but sounds of approaching footsteps splishing, splashing, and splatting through the muck and mire of the tunnel echo loud enough to interrupt.

Mally, having heard them coming _minutes_ ago, stays close to the nearest frumious bedroll as a half dozen sword-bearing young men and women stride up to and stop beside Masonmark and Tarra. Masonmark looks up expectantly. The leader of the expedition that had just spent several long hours investigating the tunnel between here and Gummer Slough shakes her head. "They're gone."

Masonmark sighs.

"Cheer up," Tarra comments. "If she's alive that means you can still have your battle."

"An' I suppose ye still think ye'll b' fightin' in it!" the young woman snaps. "'Tis _our_ figh' and we don' need some lily white bluddy _Champion_ teh b' fightin' our battles fer us!" the young Outlandish woman retorts.

"All right. Go on and get your friends killed. I'll happily let you get on with it. There's a warm bowl of stew that _doesn_'_t_ taste like borogove droppings calling my name topside." Tarra turns away and toward her abandoned cloak. Mally twitches, eyeing the distance between herself and her mode of transport, despairing of being trapped _here_.

Masonmark reaches for her arm. "Wait..."

"You're manhandling me again."

"I... ahem. Sorry." He takes a deep breath and turns a very stern expression on his kinswoman. "Corea, Tarra 'as as much righ' teh this figh'tas we do. Ye'd do well teh consider supportin' our Champion."

"An' she's just gae'ng teh put ou' 'er neck... outteh th' gehdness o' 'er heart?"

"With such a warm welcome, how could I not?" Tarra drawls sarcastically.

Abler steps between them and holds out his hands. "Halt, th' twine o' ye. Corea, Tarra 'as proved 'er intentions well. An' I'm nae keen teh lose m'kinsmen an' kinswomen in battle if'n can be avoided."

"Ye're makin' a mistake, trustin' a _royal_," Corea spits. The two womens' gazes lock and, for a moment, the silence vibrates like a plucked string. And then _everyone_ stands and the tunnel echoes with the clashing clamoring of their shouts and objections.

"Well..." a soft, aristocratic voice drawls next to Mally's ear, starling her. She gasps and gets a whiff of a very familiar cat in the process.

She turns toward the newcomer. "Chess!" she hisses, thankful the argument on the other side of the room is continuing to heat up despite Abler's efforts to calm everyone. "What're _you_ doing here?"

His eyes blink open over a wide, sharp-toothed grin that forms from the teal mist swirling in the gloomy shadows. "The usual, of course: indulging my curiosity."

Mally smirks. "Some things never change. Or..." she muses with a regal arch of her brow, "maybe some things _do_. Domestic jabberwocky bliss not all it's cracked up to be, Chess?"

His grin doesn't waver. "Only news of this magnitude could _pull_ me away."

"I'm sure," she replies wryly. "And just what are they sayin' about all this?"

"Oh, nothing terribly exciting... hot-headed, young idealistic revolutionaries have taken a very valuable princess hostage and neither hide nor hair of either the King's or Queen's Champions has been seen since the rescue was launched. That sort of thing. Everyone in Mamoreal is quite distressed over the whole affair, interestingly enough."

"I'll just bet you're loving _that!_" Chessur could find mischief in Sir Fenruffle's sock drawer; an atmosphere filled to bursting with tension must be singing a siren's call to him! "So, what are you doin' _here?_" she insists. "Unless you fancy yourself the calvary?"

"I fancy myself quite a bit," he admits. And then his grin widens. "But you _know_ I don't get involved in politics."

"You did once or twice that I recall."

"Dreadful experiences, the both of them. I've seen the error of my ways."

"Bloody _Cat_," she hisses, crossing her arms.

"Well, if _that_'_s _all you have to say, perhaps I _won_'_t_ offer my services as a courier to the White Queen after all..."

Mally spits out a swear word under her breath. "Dammit, Chess! You...!"

"And just where _is_ our dear Alice? Isn't she supposed to be here, trying to convince Tarrant not to chew through his bindings and bludgeon everyone in sight with a sopping tea ball?"

"I ain't gonna let you talk down on the 'Atter! He was the best fighter we had until..."

"Yes, until Alice. Speaking of whom...?"

"She ain't here. Not her _or _the 'Atter. Tarra an' tha' bloke who's always got 'is arm around 'er waist fought 'em and—"

"Alice's own apprentice – the queen's daughter – _resisted _rescue? Now that _is _interesting!"

"Hush up, you! This is _important!_ Now Alice an' the 'Atter are _missing!_"

"And from your tone, which I'm sure you meant to sound Significant, shall I infer that you have a _general _idea of where they might be?"

"In Gummer Slough."

"I... see... Well. I hope you're not actually considering asking me to—"

"Go look for them," she orders.

Chess heaves a martyred sigh. "Yes, I thought you might feel inclined request something highly unfortunate and deeply unpleasant... like _that_."

Mally pokes a finger into the space between his free-floating eyes. "Whatever happened to _our _Chess? The one who braved th' axe-man at Crims and stood up to th' Jabberwock at the Trial of Threes? Never hesitated to offer his-self up for a hair-pulling, foot-stomping, hand-biting free-for-all?"

"Whatever makes you think I _don_'_t _volunteer for that specific torment day in and day out? There are _four _juveniles, after all. They _still_ have not left the nest and they _still_ get rather... unavoidably excited over Thrambleberries. Luckily, they are Thackery's problem at the moment."

Mally ignores that last remark – as well as an exasperated thought for Thack; oh, if only he would _share_ those Thrambleberries, he wouldn't have to worry about them being _stolen_ every time he turns his tail to them! – and presses her point, "See? You ought to be well versed in danger, then. Heroics..."

"Self-preservation."

"_Please_, Chess. Alice needs your help."

"Well. Why didn't you just _say so?_" he muses and then, on a smile, disappears completely.

Before Mally can take a swing – even if it's merely a token one! – at the space Chessur's face had just been not-filling up – things in the center of the room get un-ignore-ably loud rather suddenly.

"_I_'_m not going to waste my __**time and energy in a MOCK BATTLE!**_"

"_An_' _jus_' _who said anythin_' '_bout i_' _bein_' _a __**mockery o**_'_** battle?**_"

"Corea! Stan' dauwn! Tarra, gi' us a mite moment."

"_Fine_."

Mally watches as Tarra steps over a collection of dirty pots from an earlier meal and wanders away from the caucus taking place near the campfire. She doesn't glance over her shoulder but as snitches and snatches of Masonmark's rebuke echo outward, her smirk deepens.

Mally takes this opportunity to dash back to the cloak and the relative safety of the hood. It appears to Mally that the same principles apply when it comes to keeping an eye on princesses as they do when selecting a teacup: location, location, location!

She takes cover just as Tarra passes by the hostages.

"On anyone else, I'd call that a satisfied smile," Leif dares to inform her on a rumble that only Tarra, the nearby Irondirk, and the dormouse of superior hearing can make out.

She turns and glares at him. Mally has never seen her look so... so... Wait, where _has_ she seen that look before?

"If you're waiting for me to ask for your opinion, you might as well hold your breath until I do."

Leif growls softly. "That would have sounded wittier if you weren't so focused on playing the fool."

"A fool am I? That's a new one."

"You are opposing the queen." He looks at her for a moment. "Are you going to tell me that's not the stupidest thing anyone's ever thought of?"

She plants her hands on her hips and looks down her nose at him. Suddenly, Mally knows where she's seen that look!

"I don't know... if I had to choose, I'd say giving lions a natural chain to yank had been pretty stupid." She glances pointedly at his tail. "Wonder who decided on that?"

"You can't win, Tarra," he tells her, an edge in his voice that Mally thinks is panic.

"You underestimate me."

"I don't think I do," he replies, glaring up at her. "I know what your mentor is capable of."

"Maybe you do, but it doesn't follow that you can judge _me _so easily."

"What makes you think I can't? I've seen this game before. You're going to lose, Tarra. This won't end well."

Tarra opens her mouth to reply, retort, rebut. Mally stares at her, marvels at the haughty arrogance of her expression, the patronizing arc of her brows... that's the look of a queen. The Red Queen, to be exact. Dear tiny teacups, how had Princess Tarranya managed to learn _that _look from her dead aunt?

For the first time since this wretch business began, Mally is more than Concerned for Tarra... She is, undeniably, _afraid._

"Nauw, nauw, lion man," Masonmark replies before Tarra can cut him down. He approaches the hostages and grins broadly. "Ye cannae b'lieve tha' Tarra's mentor – e'en if she's bein' th' Queen's Champion – woul' kill 'er aun apprentice."

"There are fates worse than death," Leif responds, not taking his golden eyes off of the princess.

She snorts derisively. "I'm willing to risk them. You'll see, Leif," she coos, leaning down to breathe her reply in his face. "Everything will be just fine. The way it's _supposed_ to be. Have a little faith in me and I'll make you my personal assistant when this is all over and done with."

Masonmark laughs.

"B' this a merrymakin' matter, Abler?" Irondirk inquires in a brittle tone.

The young man shakes his head, although not in denial, but in playful rebuke at his uncle. "F'r shame, Uncle Davon. 'Tis f'r ye we've decided teh fight. Teh gi' ye back the rights teh yer aun sword. Don' tell mae ye d'nae appreciate all th' effort we're gae'ng teh."

Irondirk frowns at him. _Fiercely. _"Wha's there teh b'appreciative o'er? Ye're destroyin' yer aun future. 'Tis nae wee gift ye were given."

"_Gift?_" Masonmark sneers. "Th' loss o' our heritage... Watchin' _yer_ own strength fade day by day... Tha' _gift_ ye think sae keenly of? 'Twas bought wi' freedom. Ye cannae e'en see it, can ye?" Masonmark leans closer to his uncle and sneers, "Ye've b'come one o' the White Queen's flock. Ye're under 'er control nauw. Bu' ye'll see. Aye, soon, uncle; ye'll see."

With a decisive nod, Masonmark turns to Tarra and nods toward the fire. "C'mon back, lass. We've a Champion's Challenge teh issue. An' if'n ye're still keen teh finish yer match with Champion Alice, we'll need ye teh sign it."

"Yes," she agrees, her gaze lingering on Leif. "You know... it's a shame you never could see my potential."

"I see it now. Don't send that challenge, Tarra," he rumbles, ignoring their audience. "Stop this from happening."

She considers him for a moment before smiling gently. "There's no point in being afraid of your own destiny." Her expression turns mockingly rueful. "I thought you would have figured that out by now."

"This isn't destiny Tarra—"

"This is _my choice_," she replies cutting through his protest. "And Imake my _own_ choices. Deal with it."

And then she turns on her heel and strides back to the campfire. Irondirk glares after his nephew who gives Leif a mocking salute then joins his conspirators. Leif does not deign to give the lad one fraction of his attention. His gaze follows Tarra and Mally puzzles over their exchange. There had been something... something in the words or in their tone... Something... coded.

She considers it for a long moment before the rumbling of her empty stomach distracts her. How she can be hungry in the midst of the tunnel's stench, she doesn't know. With a sigh, she slides from the garment she has taken to concealing herself within and searches for a few crumbs no one will miss. She tries to be quick about it; it won't do for Tarra to put on her cloak while Mally is out of it!

Nose pinched shut, she forages as quickly as she can and then dives back into her familiar cover. Sometimes it pays to be small...

And yet Mallymkun can think of a dozen ways to rescue the queen's daughter if she were only _somewhat_ bigger!

* * *

[End of Chapter 8: 2 of 3]

* * *

Notes: Yes, the reference to a Treacle Well is a call-back to Lewis Carroll's novel: Alice in Wonderland


	149. Book 4, Last Resort, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Eight: Last Resort  
**_

[Scenes 3 and 4 of 4]

When Tarrant opens his eyes, he is – understandably – confused. He searches his surroundings with his gaze even as he searches his memory for any recollection of how he'd come to be here (he even looks in the dark, dusty corners of his mind for clues) but is met with a rather frightening _blankness._

Fortunately, the strange bed he's occupying is _not _as empty as his box of Recent Recollections. Alice lies beside him, her face pale but her hair clean. She's wearing a shrift he's never seen before and – now that he thinks of it – he doesn't recognize the one _he_'_s_ wearing, either. He shifts, attempting to sit up, and winces as his left shoulder pulls and burns something fierce.

"Hm... shh... fine... e'erythin's fine..." Alice mumbles, rolling over and pressing her nose against his right arm.

"Alice? Where are we?" He knows he should let her sleep – she obviously needs the rest – but this is Important.

"Safe... sleep..."

With a sigh, he lies back down and turns his face toward her mostly-dry hair. He frowns at that. When had she finally crawled into bed? But he thinks he can guess: after she'd gotten him inside this place, wherever they are (and he has the vague recollection of dread during the journey here but he can't recall precisely why at the moment); after she had cleaned and dressed his wound; after she had bathed him and – yes, he realizes with a wobble of his head against the musty pillow – washed his hair; yes, sometime after all of that, Alice had probably bathed and permitted herself to sleep.

"My Champion," he summarizes. She has never been and never will be anything else, no matter how many foodstuff exchanges she organizes or stews she cooks or books she reads or Upland visits she makes. Alice belongs here, with a sword at hand, her hair cropped short, and her skirts packed away in a trunk she's long since lost the key to.

That is who Alice _is_ and he wishes he had never tried to change her.

He curls toward her, slides an arm around her waist and lets sleep escort him away from this foreign room again.

The next time he opens his eyes, Alice is cursing at him.

"Brangergain i'tall, Tarrant! I told you to lie on your back!"

"Humph?" he inquires as she pushes him rather forcefully flat on the bed.

He opens his mouth to apologize – he is not in any sort of shape whatsoever to indulge her in loveplay at the moment – but pauses when he sees how Worry tightens her mouth, crushes her brows together. "Alice...?" he asks.

"Hush. I've got to get the bleeding stopped." He watches as she unlaces the front of his nightshirt and presses down on the bandages covering his shoulder. Oddly enough, the pressure doesn't hurt but Alice seems quite Concerned.

"Th' bleedin'?"

She looks up. "Yes. You probably can't feel it because of the Pain Paste. Not the queen's recipe, unfortunately. Numbs fantastically but doesn't heal worth a snoutful of tove snot." She smiles at him. "But don't worry. We'll get back to Mamoreal soon and then you'll truly be on the mend."

"Mamoreal?" he murmurs, thinking as fast as his fogged mind allows. "Where... is _here_, then?"

"We're safe," she temporizes.

"Safe _where?_"

"Sleep," she says, her fingers dipping into a nearby pot and then massaging his forehead. Only a moment later – as darkness begins to envelop him too quickly for it to be of a natural variety – does he realize that she must have used Sleep Saver on him. He determines it's worth getting angry over – and he will be Very Angry indeed! – and that is the last thought he manages before the ointment does its work.

The third time he opens his eyes, he does so on a shiver. The room – windowless, he realizes – is nearly completely dark. The fire in the hearth has died down to glowing embers. He takes a deep breath and blinks through the muzziness of his head, trying to remember the correct way to work his brain, trying to make heads or tails of this nebulous thinking business.

"Now, don't strain yourself, Tarrant. You know your logic isn't up for all the deducing you're forcing it through."

Tarrant startles as a warm, male hand presses against his brow. He blinks up at the man who had most _definitely__** not**_ been standing at his beside a moment ago.

"Chess?" he croaks, taking in the image of more-than-two-decades past Mad Hatter. A Hatter before the heart line, before fatherhood, before lairdship...

Despite wearing Tarrant's form, Chessur's smile is uniquely sharp, steeply curved, and utterly his own Cat Grin. His eyes glow their usual blue-green. "Good morning!"

"Is it?"

"Is it what, good?" Chessur replies with a wry twitch of wild, orange brows. "You'll have to be the judge of that. Is it morning? Somewhere it is, I'm sure. It's inevitable enough, at any rate to be forgiven the anticipation of it."

Tarrant blinks and shivers.

"Ah, yes. Feverish. You're quite wintery, at the moment."

Tarrant frowns as Chessur meanders over to the hearth and begins flinging sticks onto the grate, one at a time, with delicate flicks of his wrist. For a moment, Tarrant thinks of the White Queen.

"How did you find us?" he rasps, wishing for a cup of water. And then, in conjunction with that thought, he hears himself say the word "us" and immediately makes a thorough effort to locate Alice. He sighs out a breath of relief when he does: she is inexplicably seated in a very inhospitable-looking chair on the other side of the bed, slumped forward on the mattress with her pale face pillowed on her arms.

"Mally sent me, of course, as she's the only one who had an inkling of where the two of you had disappeared to... and the means to tell me circumspectly. Odd that she didn't mention your injury... perhaps she doesn't know?"

Tarrant slowly considers all of that. Tries... and fails. "Circumspectly?" he presses with a resigned sigh, latching onto the one word that is giving him the most trouble. Perhaps Chess is right: his logic isn't up for any astounding feats of acrobatics at the moment.

"Yes, it appears our dear dormouse has managed to remain undiscovered by those bothersome, acne-infested rebels." He rolls his eyes. "_Rebels_, indeed. They've taken a perfectly good word and reduced it to swaggering arrogance."

"Well, I suppose you _would_ know a thing or two about that," Tarrant muses.

"Of course I would!"

He smirks weakly at Chessur's obvious pride in the fact. "Did you say Mally sent you?" he confirms after a moment.

Chessur finishes chucking bits of burnables into the fire and dusts off his hands then inspects his nails... thoroughly. "Yes. Why? You don't honestly think I would have sniffed you out like one of those _dogs_, do you?"

"Scratch of a Bandersnatch, Chess," he mutters, shaking his head, "Fates help us all if you ever got it into your furry, evaporating head to take the initiative for once and be heroic without effusive prompting."

"_Heroic?_" the Cheshire Cat sneers, still wearing Tarrant's pale face and battered (from the Knave's _enthusiastic_ "hospitality") body. "Just what have I done _recently _to deserve having profanity spewed at me, Tarrant?"

"I'm sure I can think of something..."

"While you're doing that, shall I put Alice to bed? Or would you like to register an objection?"

"No objections whatsoever. Please proceed."

Chessur does. Tarrant watches as the Other Hatter kneels down beside Alice's chair and gently maneuvers her head and shoulders back against his chest. With one arm wrapped around her, he reaches out and twitches the bedclothes aside. Then, with a graceful motion that is part mist and part Hatter-ness, he gathers Alice into his arms and settles her on the mattress.

"You've some skill with putting someone to bed," Tarrant observes softly, mindful of waking Alice when she so obviously needs to rest.

"There are _four _juvenile jabberwockies, you know."

"Ah. Yes."

"Now," Chess continues, standing and sniffing the air delicately. "You're developing a fever and I can already smell that the festering has started. It's time we cleaned those wounds of yours."

"'Twas a knife, no' a Bandersnatch tha' got me."

Chessur gives him a knowing look. "Correct me if I'm under a misapprehension, but did you – more or less – swim through the gum of the slough on your way here? The gum which, may I remind you, was once teeming with decomposing beheaded bodies? If you think the Bandersnatch's claws are unhygienic..."

"All righ', all righ'," he concedes.

"I find it rather interesting that you bipeds tend to insist on everything being 'all right' especially when you are in the wrong..." Chessur muses in a clinical tone as he beings to loosen the bandages over Tarrant's upper chest and shoulder.

"By the way," Tarrant remarks, knowing that what he's about to say is not _by the way_ at all, but rather _a saganistute detour around an impending cat-sarcasm-induced spat_. "Where is _Here?_"

Chessur's brows arc. "I'm surprised you haven't figured that out for yourself yet, given the fact that you're aware of your general location in Underland _and_ the fact that you once spent an incomparable amount of energy trying to get inside this very structure... Although, considering the circumstances at the time, I can understand why Alice would not have been in any rush to educate you on precisely whose hospitality you are both taking advantage of at the moment."

Tarrant gapes, thoroughly flunderwhapped. "This... this is...!"

"Yes, yes," Chessur replies, parting the bandages with practiced ease and delicacy. "Jaspien's castle. Don't ask me how Alice got the man to agree to take you both in. I've only just arrived and this was my first stop so – for once! – I know as little as you about the matter."

Tarrant shivers as his chest is bared to the still-cool air.

"Hm... Well. This explains a lot," the cat muses, narrowing his eyes and observing the wound.

Curious as well, Tarrant looks down at the small, but very deep stab wound. He looks and then he gawks. The knife had landed not too far from his heart, actually, and he actually wonders if Masonmark had thrown it hard enough to break through bone and pose a serious threat to his heart had it hit its intended target. But even if it hadn't been given the necessary momentum, Tarrant can only imagine what sort of havoc would have been caused if the knife had plunged into his Heart Mark.

Still, the damage done is not insignificant: the blade had sliced through one of the twining veins of the heart line. Even now, he can see not only his own dark blue blood seeping out of the gash, but Alice's dark _red_ blood as well. Thoughts of the wonderful numbing properties of whatever salve Alice had used on him are completely overwhelmed by the evidence that Alice had towed him to the end of the tunnel _and_ through the swamp _and then_ from there to this castle while _she_ had been bleeding _through __**his**__ severed heart line!_

"Dear sweet Fates..." he breathes.

"Yes. No wonder she's utterly spent, hm?" Chessur muses. "Still, I suppose it's quite fortunate the knife hit you where it did. Another smidgeon to the south here and the heart line would have been broken completely."

Tarrant examines the afflicted area again and shivers: Chess is correct. If he had twitched just a little to the side... Masonmark might have cut his heart line in twine. Tarrant takes a moment to study his bonding mark, from the tip of his heart-line finger to his heart. The color is as dark and deeply crimson as it ever has been... which means that new blood is somehow replacing the blood that he loses through the wound... and it has cost his Alice _dearly_. The deficit his injury had created has, in fact, been paid with her own blood!

"Let's get on with things, please, Chess," he lisps softly, his gaze drawn to where Alice lies utterly motionless in the bed. "Mend Alice."

"I was waiting on you," the cat-that-is-currently-a-hatter replies. "Although, I'm afraid what I'm about to do may neutralize whatever that noxious ointment is that is obviously numbing the wound..."

"'Tis fine."

"Don't say I didn't warn you..." Chessur sing-songs and then shifts into a smiling cat before getting to work.

And, _oh how it __**burns!**_ Tarrant presses his head back against the stiff, musty pillow, glares at the ceiling, grits his teeth and fists his hands. The strong grip is necessary, he finds, for holding back the whine snaking up his throat.

"There," Chessur says finally, leaning back and licking his cat chops. "Just like old times. You're even in a dungeon room. How... literary."

Tarrant pants and slowly relaxes his fists. The miraculous numbness is gone, yes, but his head feels sharper, wittier, faster than before, for which he is Very Thankful

Chessur once again resumes Tarrant's shape and begins stitching up the gash in his chest.

During this moment of silence, Tarrant sorts through his most recent memories and accuses, "Alice drugged me."

"At the time, what with her own weakness to contend with, perhaps it was for the best," Chessur, interestingly enough, defends her.

"Aye. Perhaps..." _Still...!_

"Or perhaps she was not thinking clearly."

_Well, aye..._ Tarrant nods reluctantly.

"Were I you, I would be more concerned with what she might have promised or bargained in order to secure Jaspien's assistance."

_That_ gets Tarrant's attention!

"_Do_ try to keep your priorities well-ordered and ranked, Tarrant," Chessur says, whooshing back into his usual cat-self and flicking his tail with a satisfied huff. "Now, would you like me to look in on our host and see what he's up to?"

Tarrant stares at Chessur, marveling that the cat had just dared to _care _enough to stop Tarrant from allowing his own feelings of betrayal and wounded pride to quite possibly come between himself and Alice. Especially here; especially _now _when things are so frighteningly uncertain. If only Chess had deigned to intercede years ago when Tarrant had been charged with explaining the origins and severity of Alice's madness to her...

"Chess?" he asks just as the cat begins to dissolve, apparently not requiring a response to his question. Although, in Chessur's case, mere curiosity is reason enough to commence with Spying Activities.

"Yes?" A grin and pair of glowing eyes point themselves in his direction.

"Why is it we can never be civil to each other unless I'm either dying or..." He swallows thickly. _Or Alice_'_s life is in danger?_

Even without eyebrows, Chessur manages to look condescending. "Probably because you look unusually wretched and pitiful when you're at Death's Door and even _I _can't find any enjoyment in taunting a man when he's down as far and as flat as he _can_ be flattened."

Tarrant's brows twitch in time with his snort of wry acknowledgement.

"Although... we might want to consider avoiding those circumstances which tend to engender us favorably toward each other... if for no one's sake other than Alice's. Wouldn't you agree?"

"Tha' friendship and cooperation is our last resort an' it ought teh stay tha' way? Aye. Agreed."

"In which case, I shall look forward to resuming our _usual_ familial animosity. And _now_," the cat continues in a catty tone. "_If _you have no other maudlin observations you feel are _vitally_ important at this precise moment, I shall see what there is to see around here."

"Be gone."

And, with a wink, he is.

Tarrant smiles. Bloody bulloghin' boggletogs, who would have thought Chessur would be a cause for smiling while Tarrant is bed-bound and Alice unconscious in the keep of Causwick Castle?

_Ye live laung enough an_' _e_'_en th_' _impossible will happen, lad._

Indeed it will, and indeed it has.

* * *

"How are we gonna find out if that man was telling the truth?" Tamial Hightopp – undiscovered yet soon-to-be-world-renowned savant! – muses aloud, staring up at the ceiling of his bedroom in his cousin's house. If he closes his eyes and strains his ears, he knows he'll be able to hear the traffic. Although, having been dragged through the muck and mire of it _twice_ today, he doesn't find the sound very soothing anymore. Shukm on the streets! Ew!

"I beg your pardon?" Win says in an interestingly surprised tone.

Tam turns his head and looks at his cousin's feet where they dangle next to his head over the side of the bed. (_A rhyme!_ his Fa would say.) "Well, maybe I'm not the Queen's Champion like my Mam, but I'm pretty sure we should, you know, confirm some of that before..."

Before Win does something Stupid.

"Confirm. Right. How're we going to do that?"

Tam glares at the feet in front of his nose and resists sticking his still-stockinged foot in front of his snooty cousin's snout. "I don't know..."

"Well, then keep your unhelpful _suggestions_ to yourself and let me think!"

Tam sits up on his elbows, making the bed bounce, and glares at Win. "Sure. Pardon _me_ for trying to help!"

He rolls himself off the end of the bed and stomps over to the window. It's raining again. Wonderful. He tries not to look too closely at the streets below and churned-up sludge of Disgusting. Despite that, he almost wishes there _was_ someplace he and Win could go. Even if it's the library or some other boring, silent room! Just so long as Win stops being such a... a... a _fumptwat!_

Tam sighs. "I still say we should ask my Fa about it. He _must_ know something. He and Uncle Hamish have been friends for... well, since I was born, right? He'd know. He'd tell us the truth."

"Do you _really _believe that?" Win, obviously, is Skeptical.

"Well, you think it would be better to ask _your father?_"

"_My _father is dead. Which is rather the problem at hand," Win snipes back.

"So what are we gonna do about it?" Tam says. "Right," he continues as Win frowns darkly and opens his mouth to spew more snark. "What can we get Uncle Hamish to confirm without making him realize what we're doing?"

Contemplative silence settles in the room for the first time since Win had grouched and grumbled his way through his lessons. Yes, last night had been bad – trying to hide their knew Knowledge from Aunt Margaret and Uncle Hamish – but today... _today...!_ Tam has never seen anyone so determined to be as miserable and angry as possible!

He relishes the almost-peace in the room.

"The ship name?" Win suggests slowly.

"Yes!" Tam agrees excitedly. "We could ask him to tell us about the company, about the ships! There's no reason he won't tell us if The Waymaker – that was the ship your father sailed on to America, right? – was owned by the company!" Tam turns away from the window and flops back down on the bed, jostling Win. "What else?" he presses.

Win sighs. "No idea."

Tam's rush of excitement fizzles out. He lets out a long breath and folds his hands under his chin. Clicking and clunking his heels together, he mutters, "There must be something else. Some way to _check..._"

Win huffs, "Still waiting for you to be brilliant, Hightopp."

Tam scowls at him. "I _am_ brilliant!"

"So prove it!"

Tam glares at his cousin, who glares back, until Win looks away. Smirking in self-congratulations at winning the stare-off, Tam turns away and looks across the room. He's not really paying attention to what he's looking at as he's trying to produce some Brilliance. (The trouble is that it doesn't seem to respond well to a command to appear! Well, what good is being brilliant if Tam can't do brilliant stuff whenever he wants? Maybe another hero-power would be more reliable...)

He's gazing at the tall, up-right standing mirror in the corner when he hears himself wonder aloud, "Wouldn't it be great if you could use the mirror to see the truth?"

The idea is so Surprising that Tam actually stops breathing. Beside him, Win seems to pause as well.

"What do you mean? Looking glass travel?"

Tam answers slowly, searching for each word one at a time. "Maybe... Like, maybe we could... spy on people..."

Win sits up. "Can you _do _that? Take us to that man's house or something so we could watch him or read his journals or something?"

Frowning thoughtfully at the mirror, Tam says, "No... I think that's the same problem: how do we know if he's telling the _truth?_"

Frustrated, Win demands, "So, what _are _you saying?"

"I... don't know."

"What a surprise." Win falls back on the bed and continues being a fumptwat.

Tam, his attention fixed on the reflection of himself in the looking glass, crawls off of the bed and approaches it. He stares into his own golden-brown-orangy eyes.

"What are doing?" Win demands on an exasperated sigh.

Tam doesn't answer. He looks into his own eyes, and then he looks _through _them. He looks _into _the mirror. "The past," he whispers, reaching out to the glass, drawn by some strange force. "Show us th duel between Uncle Hamish and Lowell Manchester..."

"Tam...?"

Tam doesn't reply. He glimpses shadows moving under the surface of the mirror. Just... just _there_ beneath the silvery shine... If he just leans a little closer...

"Tam!"

A wind that is not a wind blows through his mind which has become the mirror... or has the mirror become _him?_ Does it matter? The shapes and shadows catch his thoughts and tumble them away. There's something _there_ waiting for him to _look_ and if he can get just a little closer...!

"Show us the duel..." he murmurs. "Show us who killed Lowell Manchester..."

And then a hand grabs his wrist...

… just as the wind-that-is-an-ocean-current within the looking glass jerks his legs out from under him and he's falling into the silvery depths.

* * *

[End of Chapter 8]


	150. Book 4, Reflections of the Past, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Nine: Reflections of the Past  
**_

[Scenes 1 and 2 of 3]

"Where are we?"

Tamial Hightopp – master of mirror magic and supplier of stupendous surprises – doesn't answer his cousin's dumbstruck question. Obviously, they are in a forest. The leaves have long since turned autumn colors and many carpet the earth. Considering the thick frost on the ground, Tam thinks he ought to feel colder than he does, but he doesn't feel cold at all. As his mother would say: "Curiouser and curiouser."

"That's not an answer," Win grumps in response to his mumbled observation. "Nor do I believe 'curiouser' is a word."

Tam snorts out a laugh. "You know, sometimes you sound just like Uncle Hamish."

Win scowls. "What are we doing here? Was that Looking Glass Travel?"

"Er... yes. We went through the mirror... I think."

"You _think?_"

"How should I know if that was normal Looking Glass Travel or something else? It doesn't usually feel all windy and swirly. And I've never opened a mirror myself before, all right?"

"This is _not_ all right," Win declares. "We don't even know where we _are!_"

Tam backs up a step and raises his brows. "_You _were the one who wanted to try it! What's wrong with _you?_" A day ago, Win would have been over the moon with delight at finally having tried Looking Glass Travel!

Win snipes back, "What's wrong with _me?_ Not a bloody thing!"

Tam winces at the swear word.

"I'm just _fine!_ Bloody _fine!_ My dad maybe killed my father so he could marry my mum. _Everything __**is FINE!**_"

Tam flinches as the shout echoes in the forest. Given the frost on the ground, it's very early morning rather than very late evening and Win is going to wake _somebody _up if he keeps bellowing like that!

"_**AND NOW WE**_'_**RE IN THE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE AND—AND—!**_"

Luckily, Win can't think of an _and_ after that. Tam lets out the breath he'd been holding. After a moment of tense silence, during which Win does _not_ start shouting again, Tam says, "I was thinking about the duel. Your dad and Lord Manchester's. And... who really killed Lord Manchester. You know, when I looked into the mirror."

This seems to appease Win. Slightly. "Well, I don't see any duels taking place right now—"

But even as he announces his complaint, the sound of an approaching carriage click-clack-crunches closer.

"There!" Tam says, pointing to a concealed trail not too far off. Indeed, just _there _is a carriage rolling along the rarely-used ruts that are meant to be a road through the forest. "C'mon!" Tam urges his cousin. Without looking over his shoulder to see if Win is following, Tam takes off after the coach. He frowns after a few strides when he realizes he can't hear Win behind him. He stumbles to a halt and turns. Win nearly crashes into him.

Rather than berate him for his clumsiness, Win observes, "You're not making any noise."

"Neither are you." Experimentally, Tam reaches out to the nearest tree trunk and presses his hand against it. Nothing happens to the trunk of the tree, of course. Tam's hand, however...

"Watch out!" Win shouts, pulling Tam's arm back. They both stare at Tam's fingers which had, momentarily, disappeared _into _the tree.

"No, no, I'm fine," Tam assures him. "See?" He wiggles his fingers to prove it.

"Let me try that!" Win presses his own hand against the tree. They both watch him sink up to his shoulder and his hand _reappears_ out the other side of the trunk.

"That's..." Tam says, feeling his eyes widen.

"Brilliant!" Win declares.

Feeling a bit enpuffed, Tam reminds him, "Well, that _was _what you wanted, right? Something brilliant?"

Win laughs. "I can always count on you."

Tam smirks.

The carriage, however, has already rolled to a stop in the distance.

"C'mon!" Win orders and takes off through the woods.

They stumble to a halt behind a pair of trees lining a small clearing. In front of them, the carriage sits, its driver dozing and horse huffing.

"You know," Win whispers. "I heard duels are often fought in places like this. Because they're not permitted. You can get arrested and fined for fighting in one."

"Really?" How different things are in Underland where it's his Mam's _job_ to fight in duels! Or, at least, it _used _to be...

Tam turns toward the unmarked carriage. "Who do you suppose is inside?"

Win grins. "Let's find out!"

They creep forward, mindful of staying out of sight of the driver and horse. But, again, they make no noise as they move so neither turn in their direction. They pause next to the coach and Tam contemplates the curtains covering the windows and the step hanging down under the door. If they can't _touch_ the step, how are they going to...?

"Of course!" Tam hisses, experiencing a brainwave.

Win shushes him but, again, none one seems to be the wiser.

"Watch this!" Tam demands and presses his own _face_ through the side of the carriage. He opens his eyes once he's sure he's through. He grins as Win tries to yank him back, but he doesn't relent until he's gotten a good look at the coach's occupant.

"It looks like a doctor," he reports after he lets Win pull him back outside.

"A...? Wait, that didn't hurt?" he squawks, forgetting to keep quiet.

"I didn't feel a thing."

"Really?"

"Try it."

He does. Tam watches as Win's entire head disappears through the carriage wall and then reappears when he leans back. "Brilliant!"

"I told you so."

"The doctor didn't even see me!"

Tam considers this. "I don't think anyone can. Or hear us," he muses, considering all the racket they'd been making with each new discovery of their abilities here.

Before Win can suggest putting either of those speculations to the test, another carriage clatters and clunks up the forest road. Again, it is unmarked, but Win squints at the driver.

"That looks like Grandfather Manchester's driver..."

"So that must be your father in that carriage," Tam deduces.

Win nods slowly. He looks rather nervous all of a sudden and Tam realizes that he has no memory of his father. "You've only seen him in photographs, right?"

"That I can recall..."

"Then let's go have a look at him." Tam jogs across the clearing daringly, right out in the open! No one seems to see him at all. Grinning, he approaches the carriage which stops, rocking gently on its springs. He can hear a muffled voice and a request:

"... wish you would tell me what Ascot did or said to provoke this."

Tam frowns. That voice sounds oddly familiar...

"That was not part of our agreement," a second man replies. "You're here to watch Ascot be humiliated—"

"True. And I'm very much looking forward to it."

"—and to keep my blasted brother-in-law from getting in the way."

"Yes. I remember."

Tam glances at Win and then both boys put their faces through the carriage wall. Tam examines Lowell Manchester's face first as it looks very much like Win's. Except Win has never looked _that_... mean. Not even just now in the forest when he'd been screaming at him over their accidental Looking Glass Travel.

"Ascot will likely choose foils. I hope you still remember which is the pointy end," the other man muses, turning away from the window to smirk at Manchester. Beside him, Win gasps. Of course, it goes unnoticed by both men in the carriage.

"What is it?" Tam whispers, wary of speaking over an important revelation.

"The man from the pawn shop!" Win replies, reaching his arm through and pointing.

Tam frowns. "Why didn't he tell us he was at the duel that day?"

"I don't know..."

"Ah! That sounds like another carriage," the second man remarks, pushing aside the curtain with his cane. "And here I half expected him to get cold feet."

Lowell Manchester doesn't answer. He watches through the window. Tam pulls his head outside for a moment to see the approaching carriage. When the Ascot coach comes to a halt and the door opens, Tam yanks on Win's sleeve.

"Look! _Look!_"

Turning, he does. And gapes.

"That's...!"

"Uncle Hamish," Tam finishes, still gaping.

They share incredulous stares. Once upon a time, eleven years ago, the man _had_ been rather fit. Finally, Tam finds himself able to _imagine_ his uncle fighting a duel. Luckily, he won't _have to_ imagine anything! Why very soon now they'll...

Tam's thoughts spiral away from him as the Ascot carriage door opens once more... and his own Fa steps out!

"Tam! What is _your father_ doing here?"

He doesn't know. He'd never heard _anything _about this! _Ever!_

No, he has no idea what his Fa is doing at Uncle Hamish's duel, but he suspects he's About To Find Out!

* * *

Alice sleeps as if this is the last chance she will ever have to enjoy the activity. She is so utterly still that Tarrant has to press his hand against her ribcage just to reassure himself that she's still breathing. He touches her brow to check for one of those strange, contrary, _hot_ fevers Uplanders are prone to. But she is fine. Simply... exhausted.

She even sleeps through the delivery of tea and the meal, although _which _meal it is, he can't say as there are no windows in the room and thus no clues as to the time of day.

Tarrant does not recognize the woman who brings the tray, but she glances at Alice, a fond smile turning the corners of her mouth up.

"Poor dearlin'," she whispers. "'Ave 'er eat a bit o' this ginger bread soaked in tea firs'. She needs strength afore she can manage th' stew."

Tarrant can't resist asking, "D'ye happen teh know Alice from when she was here... afore?"

"Och, the lass was summat!" the woman replies. "A righ' laugh th' way she carried on, leadin' them warmongerin' louts about by their noses!"

Tarrant blinks. _That _is not what he would have expected to hear at _all _about the time Alice had been held prisoner here. Why, even now he can remember the constant rolling-_burning-__**aching-SAVE-ME!**_ that had assaulted him during Alice's every waking moment through the heart line. It appears that Alice had been far more successful at fooling everyone in Causwick than he'd ever imagined possible. But, then again, shame on him for underestimating Alice's abilities to shape the impossible into Something Possible!

"'Tis a shame teh see 'er again like _this_, though," the woman – either a maid or a housekeeper here – continues. "Back when th' ground a-gyer'd an' a-gimbled an' we heard she went Up Thar... well, we was all cheerin' fer 'er teh take up 'er sword an' cleave those greizin' guddler's shukm – Val'reth an' Oshtyer."

Tarrant can't help the twitch of his lips at her enthusiasm for seeing those two come to harm. "Ye di'nae take a likin' teh either o' 'em?"

"Oshtyer!" she spits. "Th' booly geber was a'ways tryin' teh get one o' us girls on 'er one-some! Th' prince woul' put tha' blighter in 'is place but tha' Val'reth..." She shakes her head. "He ne'er di' naught teh help us... 'Tis fortunate we aul look afteh each o'her here!" She nods decisively. "Sae, ye ask mae if'n I di'nae take a likin' teh 'em. Nae, I mos' certainly di'nae!"

"But... th' twine o' them were here on Jaspien's invitation..." He frowns. "Yet ye d'nae cast blame on Jaspien fer...?"

"A mahn's o'ly teh blame fer 'is aun faults. An' considerin' m'laird's greatest desire is teh b'free o' this wretched place, 'is punishment fer 'is err' in judgmen'twas severe enough." The woman pauses and _looks_ at Tarrant. "Ye'll tell th' White Queen, aye? Tha' m'laird 'as paid enough fer 'is crimes? 'Twasnae o'ly hisself he was thinkin' o' gettin' better lands fer... Thar's a fair number o' us who 'ave nae place else teh go... who serve 'im b'cause he doesnae judge our crimes sae harshly..."

"Yer crimes?" he parrots in disbelief. He cannot imagine this matronly woman guilty of anything more frightening than stealing chicken eggs!

"Aye," she says sadly. "Murder 'tis still frowned upon in th' White Realm, las' I heard."

Tarrant regards her in stunned silence.

"Murder is murder," she lectures him, lectures herself. "E'en if'n 'twas an accident. Or e'en if'n 'twas fer th' best. M'laird's a kenfull mahn, Laird Hightopp. An' e'en th' best o' men 'ave their foolish moments. He's nae perfect nor e'en saganstitute." With a wry grin, she summarizes, "I woul' ne'er expec' tha'... None o' us woul'. We've all o' us 'ere made th' same mistakes. Our laird, tae."

Tarrant winces as a deep throb vibrates unevenly through his heart line. His hand, still resting on Alice's shoulder, stirs, soothes. He knows she's awake now, that she'd heard this woman's plea.

"Gingerbread an' tea," the woman reminds him. "Then ge' 'er teh try a bit o' tha' stew."

He nods and waits until their visitor has closed the door behind her before turning toward his wife. "Alice?" he whispers.

"I've failed. Failed her and the others here," she mouths without opening her eyes. He feels the sting of misery over his heart and carefully brushes her tangled hair back away from her eyes. "I should have realized..."

"Hush. Ye cannae save e'eryone," he murmurs.

"I'm supposed to _try_," she argues. "I'm not supposed to run away and leave people like her behind..."

Alice's exhaustion is a beast he can feel bludgeoning her; he can Feel her unhappiness and malcontent and guilt and self-flagellation resonating in the blood of hers that he carries beneath his skin. "Ye need teh eat sommat, Alice," he replies.

"Not hungry."

"Laung pas' 'ungry, ye mean." Tarrant pours the tea, soaks the black spice bread and coos, "Open up, nauw, lass. 'Tis th' Brunch Bandersnatch a-galumphin' teh ye."

"Want th' Bedtime Bandersnatch," she grouses, but obligingly opens her mouth. It's awkward feeding her with one hand but the fact that she doesn't even remember his injuries speaks volumes of her own state. But, just as the housekeeper had predicted, a slice of warm, soggy gingerbread later and Alice is opening her eyes.

At which time, of course, she Remembers.

"Tarrant! Oh, bloody...! Are you all right? Here, lie back and I'll—"

"Ye'll do naught. Chessur's been by." Despite his command, she pulls herself into a sitting position and fusses with his bandages. "Cleaned an' stitched it. I'm fine."

Seeing this for herself, Alice lets out a long sigh as she replaces the bandages. "Chessur's here?" she confirms. "Did you send him on to Mamoreal?"

"Nae," he replies, his brogue reasserting itself along with the Upsetting Possibilities the cat had raised regarding Jaspien and Alice and... "He's looking in on our host... Ye di'nae tell me we were in bloody Causwick Castle!"

She nods, resignation slumping her shoulders. "I know."

"Ye drugged mae, Alice," he burrs, his accent thickening.

"Yes, I did."

"An' whot gehd woul' I 'a been teh ye then were Jaspien teh come by expectin' _payment_ fer 'is hospitality?"

He sees he has surprised her with that. She looks up at him, frowning. The heart line lopsidedly transmits her confusion. "What?"

"_Tha_' 'tis precisely my question, Alice," he replies, struggling not to let his temper gain control of him. "What di'ye promise th' mahn in exchange fer helpin' us?"

She reaches out to place a – most likely – comforting hand on his brow, but he remembers when she had done that before and had massaged Sleep Saver into his mind with her fingertips.

He flinches.

She notices.

Alice retracts her hand as if she fears he will bite it. Instantly, he is sorry. So very sorry. He knows she Feels it. Her expression softens but she doesn't reach for him again. "I needed you to sleep and to stay still. You needed the rest but you would move and reopen the wound and... I was so tired I couldn't... I'm sorry. I obviously wasn't thinking clearly."

"Neither was I just now." _He _reaches for _her_ and she permits him to draw her close until her arm is around his waist and her breath puffs against his shoulder. "I'm sorry, Alice."

"As am I." She sighs. "I'm glad Chess came. How did he find us?"

"Mally sent him."

Alice snorts. "It's a good thing we have so many friends to lecture him on doing the Right Thing."

He chuckles his agreement.

"So Mally is safe? At Mamoreal?"

"Not precisely, no," their erstwhile friend replies, materializing before them with a charming grin. "She's currently hiding in Princess Tarranya's cloak hood, keeping an eye on said princess – who seems to be getting along rather swimmingly with the – _ahem_ – rebels." Tarrant rolls his eyes at Chessur's sarcasm. "Mally has also charged herself with fretting over the imminent stupidity of the rebels' two captives. A lion man and a steelsmith I'm sure you're both acquainted with."

"Oh, bloody boggletogs," Alice mutters, closing her eyes on a frustrated sigh.

"All in good time," Chess does _not _reassure them. "Apparently this rag-tag rabble seems to think they can force the queen to step down. If I still understand Outlandish correctly, then their rally-cry is the freedom to bear arms." Chessur rolls his eyes. "Only Outlanders would be proud to call themselves descendants of _mercenaries._"

Alice's brows arc.

Chessur then turns toward Tarrant and comments, "_If _you were still curious as to what your esteemed host is up to at the moment... Well, he seems to think he's going somewhere despite the queen's edict for him to remain _inside _his castle until the end of Underland. Unless Underland _has _ended and I am unaware of it... _or_ he amuses himself day in and day out with packing a trunk for the sole purpose of dragging it around the keep for exercise..."

"He's requested an escort to Mamoreal," Alice admits with obvious reluctance. "That was what he asked for... and what I've promised him."

"Did he now? That _is _interesting..." Chessur purrs. "Well, I suppose even _I_ would grow tired of the lovely view from _these _ramparts were I forced to look upon them for the last nearly-twenty years."

Tarrant ignores the cat, as usual, and asks a _pertinent_ question: "Why does he want to go to Mamoreal?"

"I wasn't in any condition to ask at the time," Alice replies. "So I don't know. Chess," she continues, turning toward the cat.

"Yes, Alice?"

"I need a favor or few."

He sighs. "I thought as much. Well, get on with it."

"Go to Mamoreal and have a carriage sent for us along with a dozen members of the guard. And a medicinal kit of properly brewed medicines would be useful."

"That's one favor... possibly one-and-a-half," he remarks, counting aloud. "And the next?"

"Reassure the queen that everything is fine and she should _not _be listening to Sir Fenruffle right now."

"And what do you imagine he's saying?"

"Well, _if _they've spoken to Bayto and _if_ they've found detailed diagrams of the tunnels, he'll be wanting to assemble an armed force and attack."

"Oh, dear. He does have the penchant for being rather... action-oriented, doesn't he?"

"Yes, I suppose that's my fault. I gave him the taste for dramatic heroics when I had him act as our distraction." At Tarrant's inquisitive grunt, she elucidates, "Er, when the queen and I tried to escape Valereth's mercenaries at the Southern Crossroads Inn."

Tarrant vaguely recalls something about a battered Fenruffle, a twitchy and hovering Nivens providing wound care and... something about Thackery and scones...?

Chessur observes, "He still wears those Jubjub-gotten scars with pride."

"He does. Feather-brained pompous..."

"Anything else, Alice?" Chessur purs.

"No... Yes!" She sends Tarrant a sheepish grin before addressing Chessur. "Don't tell Sir Fenruffle I called him feather-brained or pompous."

"And I was _so_ looking forward to that!" he bemoans, smiling.

"I don't doubt it."

"Before I forget," Chess continues rotating lazily on a swirling cloud of Cheshire essence, "You probably _shouldn_'_t_ hold Tarrant accountable for insinuating that you might have considered... _submitting_ to Jaspien in exchange for succor... I believe _I _was the one who suggested it first."

"I don't doubt that either," Alice replies as Tarrant marvels at the effort Chess is making... for _him._ For Alice. For someone _other than his own cat self._ Tarrant regards the cat sceptically; less than an hour ago by the feel of the time, they had both agreed not to _be _friends but, perhaps, this sort of subtlety will be permissible between them from now on...

"You have a _gift_ for stirring up trouble, Cat," she concludes with a wry grin.

Although cats can smile, they cannot chuckle, which is a shame for Tarrant is _sure_ Chess would be indulging in that very gesture of humor Right Now if only he could. On a whisper and a whoosh, the cat disappears and Tarrant leans over and presses his lips to Alice's temple.

"Did you _honestly _think I would... with... with... _him?_" she asks hesitantly, clearly referring to Jaspien and the demand that would have sent Tarrant into unavoidable and inconsolable madness.

"Chessur," he replies slowly and with brutal honesty, "knows the identity of each and every one of my Greatest Fears, I'm afraid. And he has always been exceedingly talented at reintroducing me to them."

"That one," she answers, reaching for his right hand and grasping it tightly, "will _never_ happen."

"Another promise, Alice," he warns her softly.

"Accept it," she bids him and he is startled to hear the trace of fear in her voice and a sudden uneasiness along the damaged heart line. He imagines himself, dying... What _wouldn_'_t_ Alice do to save him? He shivers.

"I choose us," he reminds her, not denying her oath.

"Us," she agrees and then Silence wraps itself around them, warm and comforting in this strange room, in the dominion of a man who is _still_ their enemy.

It's quite a while before they get around to eating the stew. It is cold and congealed and not at all appealing, but it fills their stomachs and helps them sleep. Tarrant allows the darkness to take him away from the aching, stinging pain of his wound and the uncertainty in his mind.

If history holds true and the present follows the same pattern as the past, then they will need their strength soon, he knows.

Very soon.

* * *

[End of Chapter 9: Scenes 1 & 2 of 3]


	151. Book 4, Reflections of the Past, 2 of 2

**WARNING:** This chapter is rated **M** for domestic violence and miscellaneous mature themes.

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_**Chapter Nine: Reflections of the Past  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Tamial Hightopp – secret sorcerer of Time and Place – gawks, unabashedly, with his mouth hanging wide open. It's a good thing that it's late autumn _here_ and there are no flies buzzing around, because he's pretty sure he would have caught one or two in his gaping maw. Of course, it's also a good thing that the things and people _here _don't seem to hear or see him. Those flies probably would have buzzed right through his head and kept on going...

"Did your father just...?" Win rasps.

"I... think so," Tam admits as the verbal argument heats up in the small field. As unbelievable as it had been to watch Uncle Hamish duel – and duel _well_ at that! – it had been even _more _shocking to watch his own Fa throw a knife with a _tiny flick of his wrist_ and strike Lowell Manchester's companion in the shoulder with it. Accusations are thrown, guns are mentioned, the duel is called to a halt and threats are issued (by Lowell Manchester to Uncle Hamish) and then everyone is climbing back into their respective carriages.

"Twimble fumpt," Tam swears – part of him thrilling with glee at the liberty of saying the forbidden words and the knowledge that no one can possibly catch him at it! – and turns to Win. "Who do we follow?"

Win looks back and forth between the two carriages for a too-long moment. "My father," he finally declares and Tam rolls his eyes.

"Which one?"

"Lowell," Win replies, eyes narrowed at Tam's sarcasm.

And then, as Tam turns toward the carriage, he realizes Their Problem. "Uh, how are we going to get inside... and _stay _inside?"

Win gives him a panicky glance.

_So it_'_s up to me to figure it out... __**again**_, Tam acknowledges. "Bluddy bulloghin' boggletogs..." he mutters, glaring at the carriage. The driver begins gathering the reigns. Well, one way or another, they'll know if they have any _other _abilities in his place.

Tam lifts his foot, frowning with resolution, and places it on the carriage step. Stands up. And stays there. He grins. "Grab on!" he calls to Win as he focuses on grasping the nearest protrusion and braces himself with his Will. "Grab on and _mean it!_" he orders.

Win complies, his expression morphing from a fierce scowl into a grin of delight in the second it takes the driver to crack the reigns and the horse to take off.

"Does this mean we can touch other people if we _really _think about it?" Win asks as the wind does _not_ blow through their hair or snatch away their words.

"I don't know!" Tam admits. "Wouldn't it be _great_ if we could?"

The ride is long and bumpy but the poor performance of the coach's wheels over the rutted forest road and then the country lane and then the gunk-filled London streets never bothers them. Tam inhales deeply, relishing the lack of coal dust and the absence of shukm-stink in the air. They wind though the maze that is The Great Upland City until the carriage clatters to a stop in front of a residence Tam has never seen before. He glances at Win, who is frowning up at the building.

"You know this place?"

"No," his cousin replies, stepping down from the carriage. Tam does likewise. The sun has risen, but it's still early and not many people are out and about. The carriage door opens slowly and Lowell Manchester's companion gives the street a brief inspection before pulling Win's father outside.

"Roberts," Lowell calls to the driver.

"Yes, sir?"

"After he sees me inside, Mr. Blakefield will require transport home."

"Very good, sir."

Tam and Win follow the pair of men up the stairs. "What do you think?" Tam whispers, despite knowing no one except Win can hear him. "Do we stay with Lowell or go with Blakefield?"

"Lowell," Win decides again.

A startled-looking butler – far more animated than Mr. Brown! – pulls open the door and Blakefield more or less drops Lowell into the man's arms.

"Do let me know the details of the next meeting, won't you?" he drawls, already turning on his heel and trotting down the steps.

Lowell doesn't answer. "Get me inside, damn you!" he barks at the still gaping butler.

"Yes, sir. I beg your pardon, sir!"

Tam and Win scuttle through the open doorway before the butler manages to close it. It seems silly, Tam realizes as he stands in the foyer of the grand but unfamiliar house, to have rushed. They probably could have just _walked __**through**_the door...

"_Lowell?_"

"Madam Manchester," the butler begins, "I have no notion—"

"I don't _pay_ you to have notions. Help me upstairs then smarten yourself up!" Lowell demands of the butler, ignoring the woman hovering uncertainly in the hall. Tam stares at this much younger version of Aunt Margaret. He stares and he thinks, maybe Uncle Hamish really _did_ fight Lowell for her heart...

Win charges up the stairs after his father and the butler who is assisting him. Tam, unwilling to be left behind in this Mirror Past (even if he is the master of it!), scrambles after them.

Just like with the carriage, his Intent is enough to keep his feet from sinking through the steps and then down through the second floor rugs and back onto the first floor parquet. He follows his cousin at a brief distance, feeling somehow shy at this moment.

The butler settles Lowell Manchester on his bed and then hurries from the room when his employer bellows, "_If you_'_ve finished gawking and gathering up gossip, GET OUT!_"

Tam flinches, glad that this man isn't _his_ Fa and Very Sorry that he is Win's. Tam moves to stand next to his cousin in the room but doesn't say anything. Lowell removes his boots and jacket and waistcoat, wincing very dramatically with each motion.

"I wish we could do something to help," Tam mumbles awkwardly, seeing the red blood – just like his Mam's – seeping through the man's white shirt and staining the bed sheets beneath his sliced thigh. "We could try to touch him, I guess..." His stomach rolls at the thought. Tam does not want to be anywhere _near _this man.

"I don't want to touch him," Win answers in a hushed and strained whisper. Tam glances at him and watches as his cousin's fingers curl in on themselves until Win's hands a fully fisted and his skin stretches white over his knuckles. "I don't think I like him very much..."

Tam probably would have thought of something to say – although maybe it wouldn't have been all that wise or funny... it's hard for him to imagine a saying that would sound nice or a joke that would be funny Right Now – if the door hadn't opened behind them and Aunt Margaret hadn't swept into the room with a pitcher of steaming water and a pile of linens over her arm.

"What _happened_ to you?" she asks her husband as she sets the stack of fabric down on the bureau and goes to collect a very old-looking porcelain water basin.

"Nothing, Margaret."

Surprisingly, Tam's normally Muchy aunt doesn't argue. He's heard her get after Uncle Hamish often enough to know that her silence is very strange, indeed. Win scowls, obviously agreeing. Aunt Margaret _never_ accepts "Nothing" as an adequate response... to _anything._

She sets the basin down on the nearby sideboard and pours some of the steaming water into it. "If I didn't know you better, I'd say you've been out dueling, Lowell Manchester," Aunt Margaret remarks in a tight tone. She reaches over to pick up the first square of linen but a hand darts out and wraps itself around her wrist.

Tam and Win watch, frozen with horror, as the man _pulls_ her to the bedside. She tries to twist away, to free herself, and then, gasping, begins clawing at the hand that looks far too big, far too strong, far too tight around her slender arm.

"You're... you're hurting me..." she protests with frightening hesitancy.

"Good," he replies, shackling both her wrists in his hands. "Good, you despicable harlot. It's _meant _to hurt!" His fingers wrap even tighter around her arms.

"Ah... Ah-ha! _Please stop, Lowell!_"

"Why should I? Will you? You've been spreading favors behind my back, _Maggie?_"

"Ow... Lowell! _Please!_"

"Please, _what?_" he demands, a sharp-toothed, humorless grin stretching his mouth. "Please forgive you? Please don't punish you? You deserve it, you know."

"_PLEASE STOP!_" she shouts and with a growl and a sneer, he shoves her away from him. She steps backward, trips over his discarded boots, steps on the hem of her skirt and crashes against the wall. The sound is a sickening smash that makes Tam want to heave right there in full view of... well, the only person in the world he would rather _die_ than be violently ill in front of.

Lowell laughs as Margaret pushes herself up off of the wall and probes her jaw and cheek gingerly with her fingertips.

"Have I broken anything?" he asks with amusement.

"Only my illusions," she replies. She does not look at him as she gathers herself and makes her unsteady way toward the door. "I'll call the doctor. Clearly, you are not well, _sir_."

When she leaves, Tam and Win go with her. They don't even have to confer on this; neither of them wishes to stay in the presence of that... that...

"I don't like your father very much, Winslow," Tam whispers.

"I don't either," his cousin replies after a moment. "And my name is Win."

Tam nods. "Sorry."

Win sighs and stops at the bottom of the stairs. Aunt Margaret orders the butler to go and fetch the doctor immediately and, once the front door closes, her stiff posture melts and she dashes for the first floor water closet. Through the door, they can hear the sounds of her sobs and retching. Win takes off and dashes into the library. Tam watches as he struggles with the door, trying to close it, trying to shut out all the awfulness in this house, but his hands slip and slither through it.

He finally gives up and presses his hands to his ears. "I want to go back," he declares, glaring at Tam. "Right now."

"Go back?" he parrots stupidly. _Go back?_ Tam isn't even sure how they'd managed to _Get Here_ in the first place! "Uhm..."

"You don't know how," Win finishes for him, sneering. "Bloody fantastic, Hightopp. _Brilliant._ Now we're stuck here! For how long? Do you even know _that?_"

"No, I don't," he shouts, his frustration boiling over. "And don't blame _me _for this! _You _wanted to know the truth! _You _don't get to put it all on me just because you don't like it!"

Tam rushes from the room in silence. He pounds down the hall without a single percussive step. It's very unsatisfying, he decides, to stomp and blunder so very quietly. He races over to the window and glares at what he can see of the world outside through the weave of the draperies. He reaches for the curtain, absently trying to push it aside before he remembers that he can't. He can't touch or be touched by anything Here. He can't be heard, either. Still, there is an advantage to being so quiet; he can hear everything else in the house. There's a bit of clanking occurring in the kitchen and a floorboard squeaks above his head at one point. None of these noises alert him to Win's return, though.

"Sorry," he says. "For shouting."

"It's all right," Tam replies turning from the lace-curtained window and the view of the backyard garden. "It's... fine."

"So... how are we getting home?" he asks after a minute.

Tam sighs. "I'm still not sure. But let's try."

And they do. They find the nearest full-size mirror and Tam struggles to copy his actions from earlier.

"Take us back to Uncle Hamish's house in London!"

"Take us home!"

"Open up, you bloody-minded looking glass!"

"Please?"

Nothing.

Night approaches and, oddly enough, despite the meals that have come and gone, Tam doesn't feel the least bit hungry. "Do you think we're ghosts?" Tam asks off-handedly as he lounges on the sofa with his booted feet up on the low table opposite.

"Or figments?"

"Yeah, maybe this is a dream."

"That would mean we just have to wake up."

But neither of them can think of how to do that.

The sun has sunk down behind the line of houses across the street from the front parlor – which they had decided to inspect to pass the time – when a carriage pulls up out front and a black-cloaked man in a very fine top hat steps out. He ascends the steps slowly and with the aid of his cane, his back rigid with pride. Once again, the butler attends to the door.

"Lord Manchester! May I take you coat and hat, sir?"

"I won't be staying long."

Tam joins Win at the door and they watch as an older gentleman relinquishes his hat and walking stick to the butler's care.

"Make yourself comfortable, sir. I shall let Lady Manchester know you are here."

"No need. I'm here to see my son. Where is he?"

"Upstairs in his chambers, resting, sir."

Tam exchanges a look with Win. Again, they do not need to say anything to decide their next course of action. They follow.

They have to run up the stairs to keep up with the older man's brisk pace. And Tam feels his brows climb up his forehead when the man simply barrels into his son's room without knocking.

"You have humiliated this family for the last time!" the elder Lord Manchester announces in a mockery of greeting as he slams the door shut. Tam and Win press their way through the door and watch as Lowell attempts to rise from the bed. His face is pale and sweaty and his eyes feverishly bright.

"Father, I..."

"Am a waste of Manchester flesh! Gaming debts. Women. Brothels. Drinking in the middle of the day! And now _this! Dueling!_" The man glares down at his son.

Lowell blinks, confounded. "How did you know about...? Ah. Bloody Roberts." He snorts. "I see my driver has found _additional_ gainful employment with _you._"

"An expenditure that would never have been necessary if you weren't so obviously in need of nannying!" the elder Manchester retorts. "Do you know how much your exploits have cost this family?"

The mention of money seems to jar Lowell and he hastily rasps, "I just need a little more – just a small advance on next year's salary – and everything will be fine, sir. Just—"

"It is never _just_ a small advance, is it Lowell? Let's call a spade, a spade." He stares at his son who has finally managed to sit up and is slumped on the edge of the bed. The effort has cost him; he can barely keep his head up. The man doesn't protest his father's next words, "You are useless to me. Utterly useless. No, I should like to amend that. You are an utter _loss_, Lowell Manchester. You have cost me time, money, and pride. I'll not permit you to _destroy_ the Manchester name as well."

"So you would have me be thrown in gaol?" Lowell asks weakly.

"Are you deaf, boy? _No_, I won't let you _ruin this family and disgrace our reputation by going to __**gaol!**_"

"Then what...?"

"You will go abroad. To the Americas."

"The Americas?" Lowell chokes, raising his head finally. "What am I to do _there?_"

"Do whatever you feel compelled to do," Lowell's father replies. "_My _preferences have never held much weight _here; _I don't expect you to honor them anywhere else!"

"I'm sor—"

"Yes, you are. A sorry excuse for a son. I wash my hands of you." Lord Manchester turns on his heel and storms toward the door. Tam and Win reflexively dive out of his way. "I will make the arrangements and be back later this week with the details of your travel itinerary. In the meantime, I suggest you make your preparations."

He pauses at the door and turns to inform his badly shaken, pale and trembling son. "I believe one of Ascots' ships is setting sail this following weekend and you _will_ be on it."

"Heading for America..." Lowell mutters, shuddering with distaste.

"Yes." And with that, Lord Manchester opens the door and makes his displeasure _felt_ in his abrupt exit. He stomps down the hall toward the stairs and Tam stares after him, Win by his side.

"America," the older man mutters to himself with grim determination. "But I'll be damned if you ever have the chance to set foot on it!"

Tam gasps, turns toward his cousin, reaches out and grasps Win's shoulder, opens his mouth...

… and then the wind currents that had sucked them both into the Looking Glass Past swallow them up and spit them back out... onto the rug in Tam's room in Uncle Hamish and Aunt Margaret's house.

For a moment, he stares up at the ceiling, which looks exactly the same as it had when they'd left; the gloaming not-quite-light of the gray day is still reflecting across the plaster and – there! – across the room the window is still displaying the same rainy scene that it had earlier...

"We're back!" Tam announces. _Grins._

He turns toward Win and finds his cousin lying beside him with his hands covering his face.

"Win...? What is it?" But then, just as he asks, Lord Manchester's parting remark catches up to him:

_"Yes... America... but I_'_ll be damned if you ever have the chance to set foot on it!"_

He swallows, turns toward the mirror, remembers his own desperate command to the looking glass, and _gapes:_

_"Show us the duel... Show us who killed Lowell Manchester..."_

The mirror had done precisely that. It had transported them to the duel and it had kept them there until the murderer had revealed himself. And – if the Looking Glass Past is to be believed (and Tam fears it _can_ be trusted to show the Truth... for what else _would _it show?) – the man who had killed Lowell Manchester is Lord Abbercombe Manchester.

Win's own grandfather.

* * *

[End of Chapter 9]

* * *

Notes:

1. In OPK Book 3, _Chapter 18: In Her Name_, the time line is described thusly: the duel happens; Lowell comes down with a fever; he manhandles Margaret (yes, she did fib a bit – here we see he hadn't come down with that fever _yet _when he'd hurt his wife); and then a week after the duel Lowell's father shows up to help him pack for his trip, informing Margaret that Lowell will be going abroad for an indefinite period of time and requesting that Winslow take Lowell's place with the company when he is of age. The day after this, Margaret goes to visit her mother and sister (and reveals her not-yet-healed bruises). The next weekend, Lowell is on the ship bound for the Americas.

Here we see that Lord Manchester actually paid his son a visit the evening after the duel and had already made up his mind about what had to be done. Margaret is actually the "last to know" the details. (It's often the case that the wife is the last to know, isn't it? Or, it seems that way...) So Margaret thinks Lord Manchester came over that first day to quickly check on his son (she has no idea he was actually there to be his son's judge, jury, and executioner). As she assumed this was merely a social call, she does not mention it to her family in OPK Book 3.

As for _why_ Lowell's father would have wanted him dead, well, I mentioned in OPK Book 3, _Chapter Sixteen: Progress and Productivity_ that Lowell's father had been a very distant parent. Also, he is very dedicated to developing and expanding the family business, something that won't happen if your reputation becomes a joke in London. So, the man had motive for getting rid of his bothersome and humiliating son (especially now that he has a grandson – Winslow – to "carry on" the family name and take over the business one day). As a wealthy businessman, he also had the means to hire someone to do his dirty work for him. We still don't know _how_ Lowell died, but we know who was behind it and that it was _not_ a timely accident. 

2. What would have happened to Tam and Win if they had _not_ chosen to follow Lowell? Well, actually, they wouldn't have been able to: the magic would not have allowed them to grab onto Hamish's coach or stay with Lowell's in order to follow Blakefield. I know it _seems_ as if the boys had a choice in the matter... but, actually, they didn't.


	152. Book 4, Unthinkable, Unspeakable, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Ten: Unthinkable, Unspeakable  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

The hardest part about being a mother is also being a queen.

Mirana stands on the balcony that has suffered through dozens of crashing tea tables and regards the setting sun, her eyes looking Queast-ward, but unfocused. She does not see the sunset. She does not see the ridge of the mountains that ring Mamoreal as they are silhouetted in the rosy light. She is, actually, trying very hard to see Nothing at all. To think of Nothing. Thinking and seeing are not pleasant pastimes when one is Waiting.

Mirana has never had any particular aversion to Waiting. As a queen, she knows that many things take time and waiting is often the wisest course of action.

But as a mother... and under _these _circumstances... Waiting is a torture she can_not_ bear!

She had never explicitly said so aloud, but even prior to this... turn of events, she had been waiting. Although, at the time, she had not known what it was she'd been waiting _for._ Tarra's departure had too closely mirrored Alice's on the dawn of the Trial of Threes for her to _not _feel apprehensive, for her to _not _imagine the unwanted attention of the Fates, for her to _not _wonder if perhaps that tingle of dread had been a warning: _Something is coming..._

And it has. The fear now has words to define it: Tarra has disappeared, been taken by rebels, is somewhere between Crimson Harbor and Gummer Slough in one of the tunnels that had once funneled death and decay away from Iracebeth's castle.

There had been nothing positive in Bayto's report. Nothing concrete she could console Tarra's sisters and brothers with. Nothing except the promise that Alice has gone after her and both Mirana and the Queen's Champion will do everything they can to bring Tarra home. And yet, for a fleeting moment – when she had first heard the news – Mirana had experienced an inexplicable moment of relief, as when the thorn finally breaks the skin after tormenting one with the possibility of deeper pain and injury for so long. Had it been odd – _wrong?_ – to taste the flavor of relief in the back of her throat? Perhaps. She certainly feels guilty enough over it now... now that the Unknown has become...

Unthinkable.

Unspeakable.

_Tarra!_

The night wind arrives with a gentle, cool puff of a sigh. Mirana does not shiver until the weight of her husband's warm long-fingered paws settle on her shoulders. Until that moment, she hadn't realized she was cold.

For a minute – maybe more – neither speaks. But, of course, the questions – the _doubts_ – are never silent.

"Have I made the Right Choice?" she hears herself whisper. How long has it been since she'd last used her voice? _No, no!_ She does not want to revisit that memory. And yet the question she has just asked is inexorably tied to it. She sighs. She does not want to face herself right now... and yet there is no one else _to _face. Were she to look into her husband's eyes, she would only see a reflection of herself, her own doubt, her own fear, her own imperfections.

His fingers stir, massaging her taut shoulders. She does not relax one whit but they both take comfort in the gesture. "I can only say what I've already said, Mish'rya," he murmurs, his voice sounding equally as rough as her own.

"Then say it again. Please."

He does:

"We must consider our people. They trust you and that is a gift too precious to break."

She nods: She must not break her Vows _or _their Trust.

"But we cannot abandon our daughter to the mercies of the rebels. We would never forgive ourselves."

She blinks several times in order to see past the hot and stinging watery veil.

Yes: if she allows harm to come to her daughter... if she does not act when Tarra _needs_ her...

"We have responsibilities to protect our people, even from themselves."

Mirana bites her lip. Her fingers curl tighter around her upper arms. For once, she fears that releasing them into the air to dance with the breeze will send her spinning out of control, into madness. Perhaps this was what had driven her sister to such extremes. Perhaps a moment very much like this had shattered her spirit and torn her mind apart. Were she faced with these rebels who have taken her daughter, would she hear herself shout: _Off with their heads!_

Dale continues, "We can trust Sir Fenruffle to carry out your orders. No one will be harmed. The army will use its numbers to force the rebels to surrender and they _will bring Tarra home._"

Mirana does not ask if even that much will damage the White Realm beyond repair. What will her people think, believe, fear when they see her army descend upon the orchards surrounding Crimson Harbor? Will they think the worst has happened: the White Queen has turned... Red? Will they trust her explanation? Will they rise against her, hurt each other, endanger her children?

But if she had chosen to do nothing... How could the citizens of the White Realm respect a queen who – when her own daughter is in peril – does less than _everything in her power to save her?_ How could she trust _herself_ to be the ruler they expect her to be? To leave Tarra there, to weigh her life cruelly and impartially against those of her citizens, would damage her soul irreparably.

The Decree is no easier to contemplate now than it had been when she had given it hours ago.

_"The army is ready, Your Majesty. What are your orders?"_

_"My orders... Yes. Yes, it_'_s time. Sir Fenruffle, march to Crimson Harbor. The army may defend itself and detain the rebels but there will be __**no**__ causalities, sir. __**No**__ injuries. __**No**__ weapons used with the intent to cause pain or death. __** I Forbid it**__."_

She had tried to define and keep to the line between being a Mother and Queen. She had _thought_ she had identified it, had stayed true to both her selves.

Now, as she waits, Doubt fills the empty space beside her where her Champion _should _be standing

Mirana lifts a hand and covers her husband's where it still grips her shoulder. (Is he trying to hold her together or anchor himself? Perhaps both...) She aches to ask her Champion, her _friend_, what she ought to have done. Warfare – even one without deadly weapons – is not something Mirana has ever contemplated. Not even when her sister had begun her brutal campaign for dominion over all of Underland. (Although, yes, she _had _been rather too willing to sacrifice Alice for the sake of All, but Alice hadn't been a member of Underland at the time and, somehow, it had seemed easier for Mirana to pit her own "monster" – a being from Up There – against her sister's Jabberwocky. Now, she sees how unforgivable that had truly been. And she still has not repented properly for it!) And even when Mirana had issued the Champions' Challenge to Jaspien and his co-conspirators, she had done so at Alice's behest. She had trusted her Champion's plan, her judgment, her foresight. She has none of those things to guide her now.

She draws in yet another deep breath. The Mother within her struggles against the White Queen, the Woman who has Taken Vows... She wishes Dale could be the one to help her, shore her up, to justify her actions, to shoulder the responsibility of it all. When she had asked, he had advised her to the best of his ability, despite being as deeply biased on the matter as she is herself:

_"If we attack in earnest, more lives other than our Tarra's may be lost..."_

He had not meant it as a deterrent, but as an observation. She had watched as he'd struggled to sound – to _be! –_ impartial, to be a king first and a father second. Though his expression had twisted with pain and panic, he had restricted himself to stating an observation; Mirana, however, had taken it as a warning. She had dared to press him, to test the strength of his objectivity:

_"And if her life is lost because we do __**not**__ attack... because we rely on only the strength of the army_'_s numbers?"_

Dale had done his best to reassure them both: Alice is with her; Leif is with her. Either of them would sacrifice their lives for Tarra. Tarrant's ingenuity and Alice's genius will prevail. Irondirk had proven himself years ago, when they had asked him to hunt down all traces of Valereth and Oshtyer, to be a loyal and resourceful servant to the Crown. He will make a positive contribution to Alice and Leif's mission...

On her shoulders, Dale's long-fingered, amber-furred paws stir, remind her that she is not alone. It helps... and yet it doesn't: for a moment she does not _feel_ alone, but she _is._ She is the queen. This – the assault – had been _her _decision and it could _only_ have been _her_ decision. Right or wrong, she'd _had to _decide. She had not asked – _forced!_ – her husband to shoulder this burden. It would have been unforgivable had she put this weight upon his shoulders; she will not permit herself to blame him later should her decision turn out to be the Wrong One. She knows what the consequences of the Wrong Decision may be, but that does not help her identify the Right One. Even now after it has been made and implemented and it is too late to turn back.

"We will know soon," Dale says, more to himself than to her. Mirana doesn't mind; she is not the only one who is allowed comfort here. Although, honestly, she knows she ought to be making a better effort on his behalf. "Very soon."

"Very _right __**now**_, if you wish, Your Majesties."

Mirana feels her own eyes widen at the sound of _that _voice. Gasping, she turns, transferring her grip so that she now clutches one of Dale's wrists in both of her hands. She looks around him toward the center of her office and there the Cheshire Cat appears on wisps of swirling teal smoke, grinning. As always.

"Chessur!"

"Yes, as always, excellent observation skills, Your Majesty."

"Have you seen Tarra?" Dale asks before Mirana can.

"Yes, earlier this morning. At the time she was quite safe and seemed to be thoroughly enjoying herself. She appeared to have those.. _rebels_ rather neatly in hand."

Mirana lets out a sigh of relief... until the memory of Sir Fenruffle's proposal and her Decree return to her.

"I _do _hope this means you've already pardoned me for not announcing myself at the door but I thought you might like to hear that as soon as possible. In addition, Alice sends a rather urgent message. Although..." he drawls with a slightly worried squint, "I couldn't help but notice the lack of... army. Perhaps Alice's concerns were quite valid after all."

"Her concerns?" Dread returns, beats against her skull and pounds on her breastbone.

Chessur fidgets. "Don't tell me you've acquiesced to any feather-brained, pompous propositions recently... Have you?"

The White Queen draws herself up to her tallest, straightest, most regal bearing. "Perhaps I have. I shall have to hope Alice and I are of one mind on the matter of feather-brained, pompous endeavors."

Chessur grins sheepishly. He offers no apology for offending her, nor does she expect one from a Cat. "Then I'll just get on with the message, shall I?"

"Thank you. Although," she muses, "I suspect there is quite a bit more than that you could tell us."

"Indeed I could, and indeed I shall. However, I suspect that will take _several _teatimes."

She arcs a brow at him. "Is that your very tactful way of requesting a tea service?"

"Well... I _have_ traveled rather far today. Tea _would _be _most _appreciated."

The queen strides back into her office from the balcony and tugs on the Calling Cord.

Seeing this, Chessur is immediately and quantitatively more agreeable. "First and foremost, I think I had better start with Alice's urgent requests."

She nods.

"If you would, please have a carriage for three sent to Causwick Callion, along with a dozen from your guard and some basic injury remedies."

"Causwick... Callion...?" In her shock, she drops the mask of the queen and stares.

"Yes. Interesting development, isn't it?" the cat remarks. "But I wouldn't worry that history is repeating; Alice and Tarrant are not _alone,_ per se, in Jaspien's Castle. The staff there seem to think very fondly of her and, as I happened to cross paths with the Bandersnatch on my way _here_, I was able to point him in the right direction; he is galumphing into that dreadful swamp even as I speak. However, I doubt he'll agree to bear a third person when Jaspien insists on accompanying your former Champion and Royal Hatter back here. And then there's the matter of his luggage. It would appear that the Prince of the Callion is a man of considerable baggage, Your Majesty."

Mirana goggles at him for a very long moment. "Yes, I see," she finally manages. "This _will _require several teatimes."

The Cat grins wider. "Well, _I _certainly won't complain and, if you'll pardon me for saying so, I do believe you might also benefit from multiple servings yourself."

"I'm sure you're right, Chessur," she replies, moving toward the tea table just as a knock sounds on the door. Tea is ordered and Alice's requests addressed and when the three of them are alone again she reaches out a hand to her husband. No, they are not perfect monarchs – their hands, clasped on the tabletop, attest to the continued fear and apprehension that they feel as Parents – but they are in Control again. Alice has sent the singularly most important thing a monarch who is facing a rebellion could ask for: reliable information.

But before Chessur can divulge the wealth of knowledge he has gathered, a rather doggy sort of knock sounds on the office door.

Biting back a growl of frustration, Mirana calls out, "Enter!"

Warily, Bayne does. "I beg—your pardon for—interrupting—Your Majesties—but Sir—Fenruffle—ordered me to—deliver this—as quickly—as possible."

She holds out her hand for the scroll tied onto the underside of his collar. He makes a valiant effort to hold still despite his heaving sides and turns his face away so that the foam and drool on his jowls do not smear her skin or the sleeves of her dress. She has half a thought to thank him for his presence of mind, but then the scroll is unrolling and its contents shouting at her in silent black ink and...

"No," Dale rumbles. "This is not possible!"

Mirana stares at the Champions' Challenge in her hands. She gapes at the perfectly worded issuance of Intent to Do Battle and the signature beneath it.

She does not even reprimand Chessur when he evaporates and then brazenly hovers over her shoulder.

"Ah, yes. I _was _getting to that." He sends an irritated glance at Bayne, who puffs his chest up as much as his panting breaths allow. "Tarra appears to be cooperating with the rebels. If I'm not mistaken, it was she who assisting them with the drafting of this Challenge."

"But... no. No, your ears must have fooled you, Chessur," she somehow manages to say. "Tarra is the child of a Soul Bond. How could she... How would that even be possible?"

Chessur does not reply.

Bayne's only contribution is his continued winded breathing.

Dale curls his arm around her shoulders.

The wordless silence is heavy enough to crush oyster shells.

_This_ is why she should not ask questions to which she already knows the horrifying answers. But no. _No!_ Mirana will not consider these blasphemous thoughts _now._ Not now!

Mirana shakes her head, refusing what she hears, what she thinks, what she suspects.

"She stood against Alice. Resisted rescue," Chessur continues in tone meant to be merciful. "And both Leif and Irondirk are their prisoners."

"Alice...?"

"Yes, if what Mallymkun told me is true, Tarra fought Alice when she dared to attempt a rescue. Tarrant was badly injured – in the melee, I believe; although, I confess, I never really confirmed the details of when and how it had happened. Still... They were forced to retreat. I found them at Causwick Castle, where Alice no doubt traded a guarantee of safe passage to Mamoreal for succor."

Dale growls. Mirana rubs his arm. Yes, she knows that promise was not Alice's to make – that favor was not hers to give – but Mirana would rather allow her that latitude than contemplate any harm coming to her Champion or her Hatter.

"Have you heard _why_ Prince Jaspien wishes to visit Mamoreal?"

"Unfortunately, no."

Mirana drops her gaze to the parchment – already wrinkled – in her grasp. She stares at her daughter's handwriting, at her signature which promises her life for the cause that these rebels have rallied themselves around.

_No! This was not supposed to happen!_

And yet it has.

Mirana realizes then, as she stares at the Declaration of Intent to Do Battle, that she would never have truly believed Chessur and his tale of her daughter's apparent participation in all of this. She would not have wanted to believe it. The very idea that Tarra would – _could!_ – move against her own mother, against her own family, against the White Crown is inconceivable.

But not impossible.

Tarra had never taken her Vows.

And if the Soul Bond is permitting her daughter to do this, to even _think _it, then there _must _be some merit to what these rebels fight for... Otherwise, how _could _Tarra have signed her own name here, on _this _document? Otherwise, how _could_ the moral compass that the Soul Bond provides for their children permit this?

Otherwise, how could Princess Tarranya of Mamoreal become the Champion of the New Resistance?

But there _is_ another option:

_Or_, a small, very Dark part of her mind whispers, _if the Soul Bond and the moral compass that it provides has... broken..._

No. No, no, no. _That_ thought is far worse than considering the possibility that Mirana is in the Wrong and these rebels fight for a Just Cause. _That _thought is far too terrifying to contemplate.

She draws a deep breath and glances at Bayne. He has gotten control of his breathing finally and is waiting for her response. _Sir Fenruffle_ is waiting for her response.

But the White Queen _has_ no response to this. Despite the warmth of her husband's arm against her shoulders, Mirana is utterly alone.

_I need my Champion!_

"Chessur," Mirana asks shakily. "Does Alice have a plan?"

"Well, she did not say as much to me, but..."

"But?" she prompts.

Chessur sighs fondly. "But, my dear queen, when _doesn_'_t _she?"

And because that is absolutely true, Mirana manages to collect herself. Tarra is fine. An assault is not necessary. Alice will be here soon. Everything is under control.

"Yes," she replies, speaking with confidence for what feels like the first time since Master Setteeson had arrived so many days ago. She pats Dale's hand and concurs, "Yes, you are quite right, Chessur. When doesn't she?"

It is not a question.

It is a guarantee.

* * *

[End of Chapter 10: Scene 1 of 2]


	153. Book 4, Unthinkable, Unspeakable, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Ten: Unthinkable, Unspeakable  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Thanks to a bit of luck, a spark of intuition, and an obliging looking glass, Lowell Manchester's killer had been revealed.

However...

Tamial Hightopp of Iplam, Magician of Mirrors, does not know _what to do about it!_

"Win?" he whispers following a very uncomfortable dinner with his aunt, uncle, and cousins during which Winslow had been very, very surly.

His cousin continues stomping up the stairs, not pausing, slowing _or _looking back over his shoulder. "What?"

Tam hesitates, oddly anxious in his friend's presence as he never has been before. Perhaps it's because he'd most recently heard that tone of voice from Lowell Manchester. He shakes his head, trying to knock the memory out of his skull. "Shall I come up with you?"

"No. I want to be alone."

Stunned, Tam stands on the step midway up the stairs and listens to his cousin storm down the second floor hallway. He flinches when a door slams shut, echoing throughout the house.

"I don't know what you did," a bossy tone informs him, "but you'd better do something about it."

He turns and regards Laney who is glaring at him with her fists on her hips. "Like what?" he dares her to answer, irritated by the command.

"Apologize," she suggests.

"This isn't _my _fault!" In fact, Tam would argue that if it's anyone's fault, it's Win's! _He's_ the one who wanted to see the duel for himself! _He_'_s_ the one who wanted to know who really killed Lowell Manchester!

"Then tell my father about it and let him sort it out. He's good at that sort of thing, you know."

Tam doesn't, actually – he's never spoken much with his Uncle Hamish – but he nods as he rolls that thought over in his mind. Looking somewhat satisfied, Laney brushes past him and heads upstairs.

He lingers on the steps and thinks. Ever since they'd come back through the mirror, Win has been... well, _angry._ Tam had tried to talk to him, had asked him what he wanted to do now... Furious silence had been his cousin's only response.

Tam doesn't like this. Winslow always has an answer for everything!

Not for the first time, Tam regrets ever opening the looking glass, ever stepping into the past, ever _finding out _what sort of man Lowell Manchester had been and the sort of man Win's grandfather _is._

_He killed his own son!_

Tam can't comprehend it. He just... _can_'_t._

_Maybe that_'_s what_'_s making Win so angry – he doesn_'_t understand it either..._

He sighs. He hates admitting that he needs help. He _really _does. But, as his Fa sometimes says, "Others may not be able to help you _think_, but they _can_ help you See."

Mind made up, Tam turns around and heads back down the stairs to the drawing room. He's still trying to think of how to explain the situation without incriminating himself or Win when Aunt Margaret's voice floats down the hall to him.

"... could be wrong with Winslow? I've never seen him so..."

"Yes," Uncle Hamish agrees gravely. "He looked..."

"He looked just like a younger version of Lowell tonight," she replies, her voice muffled.

Tam creeps forward and peers around the door jamb. There, in the center of the room, Uncle Hamish stands with his arms around Aunt Margaret as she presses her face into his shoulder. Instantly feeling uncomfortable at having seen them look so... sad and... weak, Tam pulls back into the hall to spend a few more moments with his thoughts.

Win _had _looked like his father tonight. Had looked more like him tonight than he had _last_ night at diner. Surely, that must be a Bad Thing. Especially since Tam has _seen_ exactly what kind of man Lowell Manchester had been.

And then another thought occurs to him: what will Uncle Hamish do if Win _doesn_'_t _go back to normal soon? Will his uncle... will he be just like Lord Manchester and...?

And then it is as if the Fates – which he's sure ought to lurking in Underland and not sticking their noses in other people's business Up Here! – had heard his fearful thoughts:

Uncle Hamish decrees, "If he continues to behave like this, we'll set him to rights."

"But perhaps he..."

"No! I'll not allow you to say it, darling. We'll do what's necessary to _ensure _he does not turn into that _rotter!_"

Tam gasps. Could he mean...? Is he going to...?

The thought is incomplete – unthinkable! – but his panic is fully formed.

"No! _Don_'_t!_" Tam hears himself shout as he barges into the room, startling his aunt and uncle. They step apart but Tam doesn't pause to apologize for scaring them. This is Too Important! "Please don't blame Winslow! This is my fault!"

"Your fault, dear?" Margaret asks. "Why would you say that?"

"Er..." Oh, blundering Bandersnatches! _Now what, genius?_ "Um, just _please_ don't... don't hurt Win fer actin' like 'is Fa." Tam winces as his words trip off his tongue in brogue. He sighs; perhaps there are times when acting like your father is just natural.

"Tamial, we would never _hurt _Winslow," his aunt insists. "Why would you say such a thing?"

Tam glances behind him at the open door. Suddenly his rush to stand in as Win's Champion doesn't seem like such a great idea. The safety of the hallway and the nearest looking lass of adequate size beckons...

"Tamial," Uncle Hamish says sternly. "Close the door and have a seat, young man."

His heart pounds in his chest as he complies. He tries not to think of nails and coffins.

Tam trudges over to the seat Uncle Hamish points to and sits himself in it. He clasps his hands in his lap, hating the gesture even as he does it – _I'm supposed to be too old to feel this ashamed of myself!_ – but he can't help it with Uncle Hamish's stern, blue gaze focused on him. He wonders if Uncle Hamish really could... _hurt _Win for acting like... his father. _His __**dead**__ father._ Tam shivers.

"Talk to me, dear," Aunt Margaret says. "What has happened to upset Winslow? Did you two get into an argument."

"Er... no. Not... no."

She waits. He fidgets. It's hard to resist Aunt Margaret's _Look_ but it's possible. When Uncle Hamish clears his throat, Tam reflexively glances up at him and quells beneath the force of the man's frown.

Tam closes his eyes briefly and sighs. There's no hope for it; he'll get in Big Trouble for this. So will Winslow. In fact, his cousin may never forgive him. Still, Tam takes comfort in the sudden memory of his Mam and Fa. They would want him to tell the truth. They would want him to help Win. Even if it means getting himself into Serious Trouble.

"Win and I... we heard you fought Lowell Manchester in a duel a long time ago, Uncle Hamish," Tamial admits, carefully editing the events to spare Win as much as he can. "And I... I opened a looking glass and... I asked it to show us the duel... and it did."

"I... beg your pardon?" his uncle rasps.

Oh, yes: when they figure out just what he'd done, it's going to be Bad. Epically _Bad_. But there's no turning back now. "I opened a looking glass to the past, sir."

For a minute, Tam wonders if he'd merely _imagined _saying that and hadn't actually said anything at all. But, if that were the case, wouldn't Uncle Hamish and Aunt Margaret be demanding he say something right about now? They aren't. In fact, they don't even seem to notice that no one is talking _at all._

Somehow, the silence is Not Comforting.

"Er..." he says.

"The past?" his aunt murmurs. "Tamial, that's not possible."

"I didn't think it would be, either. But I asked the mirror to show us the duel, and it did."

"You... you _saw...?_" Aunt Margaret asks as Uncle Hamish is clearly too stunned to do so.

"The duel? Absolutely." He glances hesitantly at his uncle. "You were really good with a sword." The thought of Uncle Hamish fighting reminds him of something else: "Why did you ask my Fa to stand with you? Did you really fight Lowell Manchester for Aunt Margaret?"

The man chokes.

"Fight Lowell for... _me?_" his aunt gasps. "I... Where did you hear _that?_"

_Oh, blast!_ "Um... well... We heard, well, that is, _I _heard a rumor that Uncle Hamish wanted to marry you when you were still married to Lord Manchester and that's why they fought." _Yes,_ Tam decides,_ it_'_s __**much**__ easier talking to Aunt Margaret about this._

Uncle Hamish is still gaping at him, his complexion reddening, when Aunt Margaret reaches out and pats Tam's hands. "No, dear. Your Uncle Hamish tried to help Lowell but he... misunderstood and took offense."

Tam scowls, trying to comprehend that. "How can someone get angry when you try to help them?" But even as the words leave his mouth, he thinks of Win.

"It's... complicated," she admits. "And not very relevant at the moment. Where did you hear such a rumor?"

Tam finds himself fidgeting again; this conversation is _not _going very well _at all!_ "A man told us." He digs though his memory for the name of the man who had gone to the duel with Lowell, who had pulled out a gun and then had thrown his Fa's knife at Uncle Hamish and hit Lowell instead. For the first time, Tamial spends a moment thinking about that man and decides he probably shouldn't be trusted.

"Mister Blakefield," he says without further prompting.

"That _rotter!_" his uncle growls, turning away and pacing furiously.

Tam and Aunt Margaret watch him for a moment. "Um... Uncle Hamish knows Mister Blakefield?" Tam whispers to his aunt.

"Yes," she answers. "They are very old... acquaintances."

"Hah!" his uncle barks, startling Tam. "_Acquaintances_ don't try to turn their associate's own son against them!"

"I can see why Win is so upset," Aunt Margaret muses, "but, please, Hamish, let's not lose our heads over that man. We'll deal with him later."

"I'll lose my head if I bloody _want to!_" Uncle Hamish rages.

Amazingly, Aunt Margaret stands and moves toward him. Tam leaps out of his chair and grasps her elbow. "No!" He steps between them, remembering how Lowell had grabbed her, had sneered at her, had hurt her. Uncle Hamish is _easily _as angry as Lowell had been but Tam does not have to simply stand by and _watch_ his aunt be hurt _this time!_

"Tamial?" Aunt Margaret says, laying a hand on his shoulder. Only then does he realize his fists are clenched and the room is utterly silent. Even his uncle had stopped his furious pacing and angry shouts.

"I... I'm sorry," Tam says, unsure of what else he _ought _to say.

"Did you believe," Uncle Hamish asks in a shocked tone, "that I would hurt your aunt just now?"

"Well... you were really angry," Tam admits awkwardly.

"And have you seen people hurt each other when they are angry?" Aunt Margaret asks.

Tam sighs, nods, and figures he might as well tell them everything. At this point, he's too tired and confused to keep secrets anymore. "We – Win and I – when we went through the looking glass, we followed Lowell Manchester home and we saw..." He looks up at his aunt then glances away, uncomfortable with the memory. "We saw you try to help him but he... he was so angry and he... he hurt you and... and then you called for the doctor."

"Oh, my Lord..." His aunt sinks down into her chair again.

Unable to look at his aunt, he glances at his uncle who looks much paler than usual. "What did you see, Tamial?" he asks.

"Er... he grabbed Aunt Margaret's wrists and... he said some very bad things to her. And the he pushed her and she... fell." Tam can't resist looking in her direction although he doesn't try to read her expression. "You didn't ask the doctor to check your face when he arrived. And... before that... when you were in the first floor water closet... Win could hear."

"Oh, no... _No..._" she whispers, sounding thoroughly wretched. "I _never _wanted him to see – to _know –_ what Lowell..."

Uncle Hamish strides over to her and places his hands on his wife's shoulders. "We'll talk to him. Explain."

"Yes," she agrees, accepting the handkerchief he offers her and dabs at her eyes. After a moment, she takes a deep breath. "Yes, we will." She then turns and addresses Tam again. "But that still doesn't explain why you feared we would hurt Winslow for behaving in a... similar manner to..."

Tam takes a deep breath. He thinks of his Mam, the White Queen's Champion. He thinks of his Fa, Uncle Hamish's best friend. A Champion and a Friend. Tam would like to be both for his cousin. And he knows what his parents would do in this situation.

He looks up and confesses, "The truth is... Win got a letter from someone just before the anniversary party..." And so Tam describes the conversation at the pawn shop and how he'd hidden because Win had had to appear to be alone.

"But we didn't know how to confirm what he said... And then, this afternoon, after Win's lessons were finished, I got the idea to try the mirror. I asked it to show us the duel."

And then he tells them about what they'd seen and how no one had seemed to hear either him or Win. No one had seen either of them, either. "It was like we were ghosts," Tam confesses. "So, when Lowell hurt you... I'm so sorry, Aunt Margaret. We couldn't stop him."

He doesn't tell her that they had been too shocked to even consider trying to save her. _That_ would be too mortifying to ever admit to!

"It's all right," she assures him. "I was fine and he never hurt me again."

Tam winces. "I... I know."

"You do?"

He nods. "I... I didn't _only _ask the mirror to show us the duel." He glances at Uncle Hamish apologetically. "I also asked it to show us who really killed Lowell Manchester."

"Tamial..." his aunt says softly. "No one killed Lowell. He died on the journey to America..."

"He was supposed to," Tam interrupts her.

"I don't... I don't understand," she replies. The words seem to indicate that she expects an explanation, but her tone seems to ask him not to explain at all.

"That evening, Lord Manchester visited," Tam continues hesitantly.

She nods. "Yes. I remember."

"He... he ordered Lowell to go to America. And, as he was leaving, he said... he said..." Tam swallows, gathers his courage, and... "He said he would send Lowell to America, but that Lowell would never step foot on it."

"No..." Aunt Margaret replies. "No, you must have misunderstood, Tamial. Lord Manchester would _never..._"

Tam says, tries to explain, "After... after Lowell hurt you, Winslow wanted to come back but... I didn't know how to open the mirror on that... that side. I tried everything, but we couldn't leave. But then, after we heard Lord Manchester say... those things... suddenly we were back. In my room upstairs. Like nothing had happened." But So Much_ had_ happened! Far _too_ much!

"I could take you back there," he offers – mustering every last ounce of his courage to do so. "I could show you... if you wanted."

The proposition is met with silence. The very silentest sort of silence.

"You really believe you could, don't you?" Uncle Hamish wonders aloud.

Tam looks up. Frowns. "Of course I do. I did it already!" And there's no reason for the mirror to refuse him so long as he asks nicely!

"Hamish," Margaret interjects. "That's hardly the point now. Tamial has provided sufficient details to prove to _me_ that he has seen what he's said he's seen." She turns back to him and confirms, "And Winslow saw and heard all of this with you?"

He nods. "I think he's angry because... well, I dunno. He didn't like Lowell Manchester very much. And... Lord Manchester... he really... Well, he must have really... done what he said he did because I don't think the mirror would lie about something like that..."

Margaret smiles, but the expression somehow looks very sad. "No, I don't imagine mirrors can lie. They have never lied to me, in any case." She looks up at her husband and says, "We need to talk to Winslow."

Tam lets out a blustery sigh. "He'll know I told you. He'll never want to speak to me again. Maybe I could just go home?"

Aunt Margaret pats his knee. "We'll discuss that in the morning. Come on," she continues without even glancing at the clock, "it's time for bed."

Although his aunt doesn't look at the clock as she announces the time, Tam feels compelled to confirm it, and he is wryly amused at the fact that she is right. It's nearly ten o'clock: well past bedtime.

He lets his aunt and uncle gesture him up from his chair. "What will you tell Win? About his father? About his grandfather?"

"The truth," his uncle answers.

"We will tell him that his father did have several good qualities – charm, wit, humor – when I married him, but that he became ill. And yes," Aunt Margaret continues, answering Tam's unasked question, "overindulgence in drink and gambling _is _an illness, dear. A very serious one. The man you saw was not himself, and had not been in a very long time."

"And... Lord Manchester?" he dares, whispering.

"Tamial does not have to see that man if he does not wish to," Uncle Hamish declares. "I will look into what really happened aboard the ship – that should not be too difficult a task to accomplish as the ship was one of ours and the company keeps _very_ thorough records. One way or another, we will sort this out."

"All right."

Tam receives an escort to his room, quiet thanks for his help, and a wish for pleasant dreams. He doesn't think he'll have any though. Despite insisting that he – and everything else – is all right, he doesn't truly feel that way. Thanks to Time flying with him, he is thirteen years old instead of eleven, but tonight he feels younger than he can ever remember feeling. Young... and unsure. Everything is _not _all right: Win's father had not been a nice man and Win's own grandfather had somehow killed him. No, everything is _not _All Right. In order for everything to _really _be all right, Tam suspects it would have to be his Mam and Fa wishing him a _gehd_ night with _callaycious_ dreams.

As he climbs into bed, he closes his eyes and imagines that they are doing just that...

Still, the reality of it would have been better.

* * *

[End of Chapter 10]


	154. Book 4, Duty and Betrayal, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Eleven: Duty and Betrayal  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

The Bandersnatch arrives well after sunset, rousing the entire castle and threatening the stability of its foundation with each ear-pounding, stone-shaking, booming _Grru__**uff!**_

"Open the gate," Alice instructs a wincing guard who seems to be in too much discomfort to notice that Alice had hurried outside barefoot with her shabby, borrowed housecoat only half on over her equally shabby and obviously borrowed shrift. "I'll calm him down. Just open the gate." The vulture on duty doesn't have to be told a third time.

The great doors swing open and Alice is nearly bowled over by the frumious beast. (Truly, it is remarkable that a single day away from his groomers at Mamoreal can result in such a stench. He hasn't smelled this bad since she'd traded his eye for the Vorpal Sword!) She thinks fleetingly of the brief bath she'd had earlier – had it been only that afternoon? – and then his great, flapping tongue is nearly pushing her over in its slimy enthusiasm to _taste_ that she is truly all right.

"Gah! I'm fine, Bandy," she insists, waving her arms in protest.

"Grrrb?"

"Yes. Really."

He eyes her as she tries to wipe the worst of the slobber off of herself with the skirt of the robe.

"Grrrl..." he intones solemnly, looking rather apologetic.

"Uh huh," she says, not in a particularly forgiving mood at the moment. "Where have you been? Didn't Bayto find you last night?"

She receives a series of whine-ish growls that she imagines – and since she _still_ can't speak Bandersnatch, she can _only _imagine! – are a litany of excuses.

"Never mind. You're here now," she says, cutting off what appears to be a thorough self-flagellation. "Thank you for coming."

He sighs gratefully and she rubs his ears. Luckily, he seems perfectly content to spend the night in the courtyard rather than try to follow her inside the castle and back to the room she is sharing with Tarrant. Although, by the supremely offended look on her husband's face when she returns, she half expects to find herself keeping Bandy company in the yard tonight.

"So, that _was_ the Bandersnatch arriving," he deduces. He doesn't bother to _ask_. He can _smell_ the answer from all the way over there, apparently.

"I requested a bath on my way back," she consoles him.

"And once you have partaken of it, I shall thank you _generously._"

She does and he delivers on that promise, gathering her against his right side and conducting a very Thorough survey of her face and neck with his lips. She falls asleep with her hand over his Heart Mark and his warm breath puffing rhythmically against her once-again washed hair.

Yet another commotion wakes her what seems like only moments later.

"Tha'snot Bandy," she grumbles, mouthing the words against the sheets.

Tarrant rubs her back consolingly. "I believe _that _would be the carriage and contingent of the White Guard you ordered, Lady Hightopp."

"Bugger."

The twinge of puzzled amusement she feels traveling like a drunken sailor up her heart line from Tarrant tickles her into rolling over and groping toward the edge of the bed. Despite the fact that every muscle in her body screams in silent protest against the action, she manages to stand. "Bloody boggletogs," she grumps, wincing as she bends over to collect her just-laundered breeches and patched tunic. "Why do people have to wear so many clothes?"

Tarrant snorts, giggles, and whispers, "Perhaps it is merely an attempt at self-restraint."

"Self-restraint?" she echoes blankly, but when she glances over her shoulder at him and observes his appreciative stare aimed at her bare back, she Understands. "Ah. Perhaps." And at times and in places like the one they are currently occupying now, Restraint is very needful, indeed.

As Jaspien orders his trunks brought downstairs, Alice nods to the Queen's Guard (several of whom had volunteered to be her sparring partner on one or two occasions) and nudges Tarrant into the carriage. The supplies she'd requested are there and she smooths a dose of Pain Paste – _quality_ Pain Paste and properly brewed to boot! – on his wound. Someone had thoughtfully included a basket of Mamoreal edibles and as the trunks are lifted onto the back of the carriage and lashed into place, they eat their morning meal which, thankfully, does not taste of gamy meat and mud.

Mindful of how the quality of food seems to have decreased since Jaspien's imprisonment had begun nearly two decades years ago, Alice reluctantly saves a serving for him. He _had_ acted as their host, after all. It's the least she can do... well, aside from granting his boon. Which reminds her...

After they have gotten underway and after Jaspien has inspected and gnawed through each morsel, Alice ignores the fact that Tarrant is still glaring at the man and asks, "What is it – precisely – you hope to gain from this venture, sir?"

"My gains need not be precise," he counters in a bland tone. "Nor need they be _mine _exclusively. If I'm not mistaken, this is the time of the Barterment, is it not?"

"Yes. In a few days."

"Then the timing of your visit could not have been better," he informs them. "My people have tanned leather to trade for necessities. That is my primary objective."

"So you do _not_ wish to speak to the queen?" Alice clarifies. She had assumed – from what she'd heard from the maid the day before – that Jaspien would try to bargain for a lighter sentence or attempt to persuade the queen that he has paid his debt for his betrayal.

He sighs. "I would like to present my case, of course. However, I realize that is not something you have the authority to guarantee me, _Champion_ Alice."

"What makes you think that it is within my power to grant you _safe_ passage to Mamoreal?"

He blinks his watery and unremarkable eyes at her. "Frankly, I did not expect you to even honor _this _request. Why would I have asked for a second? Necessities concern me," he replies in a disinterested tone. "I do not waste time considering luxuries."

And with that, the man folds his arms over his chest, settles back against the bench seat, and dozes. Alice reaches for Tarrant's hand in the silence and his fingers meet her halfway. She glances out the window and smiles for the Bandersnatch which is keeping up with the pace of the horses just fine. She does not curl into her husband's warmth, although she _wants_ to. She wants to forget what is waiting for her in Mamoreal: a queen, a turn-coat princess, a revolution.

She reminds herself that Tam is safe; Tarrant is healing; she _is_ the Queen's Champion and if there is a revolution to be faced, then she will face it.

The anxiety she feels burning her heart from the outside in lets her know that Tarrant's thoughts are probably not dissimilar to her own. Of course he doesn't want her to fight. Of course he worries that the next time someone swings a blade at her throat she will not step back quickly enough. She worries a little about that as well; it has been _months_ since Alice has had a day of serious training. However, there is no changing that fact. Not now. With a concentrated effort, Alice focuses on the things she _can _change, the duties she _can_ perform.

There is a queen to advise.

A rebel cause to confirm and consider.

And, if her suspicions are on target, then there will also be a Champion's Challenge to answer.

She narrows her eyes in thought as she recalls the most recent conversation she had shared with her apprentice:

_"Tarra, what do you think you're doing?"_

_"What does it __**look**__ like, Champion?"_

_"It __**looks **__like you're experiencing a very Serious Error in Judgment."_

_"Does it? That's... interesting. Although not very surprising. You never were strong enough to go against my mother."_

_"And you fancy yourself in that role now?"_

_"What do __**you**__ think?"_

And she does. She thinks; she Believes...

She closes her eyes and sighs. Alice can see where this path leads. If the information she has is correct – if these rebels are who they seem to be: willfully ignorant children – then there _is_ only one way to end this. For good. And Tarrant is _not_ going to like it at all. In fact, this path scares _her_. Luckily, they have several hours of travel left yet during which time Alice can make an effort to resign herself to what is coming.

Beside her, Tarrant twitches and inhales sharply, no doubt in reply to the heart ache that had throbbed through her before she could manage to subdue it.

"What are thinking, Alice?" Tarrant asks in a very soft tone, his inquiry resonating along the heart line, which, by the feel of it, has healed as much as it can. It seems... muffled or a bit smothered, but she _can _feel him better now than she had before. It is progress she receives gladly.

She looks into his eyes which are a bit more yellow than she would like. Her fingers move over the back of his right hand and she points a finger toward their travel companion. He _appears_ to be sound asleep, yes, but Alice can't risk the chance that he's not. And the subject of her thoughts... well, even if she and Tarrant had been traveling alone, she would have been wary of discussing her thoughts here. In a carriage of questionable durability.

"About the Barterment," she answers just as softly. "The hides from Causwick might change things a bit in our favor."

"How so?"

As Alice explains a bit about the dynamics of supply and demand – what she can remember of it from her time apprenticing with the trading company, that is – the land rolls past. Even though the horses had not been given much time to rest after they'd arrived at Causwick, the carriage makes good time. They arrive at Mamoreal sooner than Alice would have thought possible. Yesterday, this safe haven had seemed _years_ away, an _impossible_ distance for their feet and wills to manage. And yet here they are. In only a half dozen hours.

The carriage pulls to a halt just outside the outer gates, waking Jaspien. The man scowls out the window and observes, "We're outside the castle."

"Yes," Alice replies, opening the door.

"And... we are disembarking _here?_"

"Did you actually believe I would permit you to enter the castle without having you thoroughly searched first?"

"I... beg your pardon?"

Alice explains patiently as the guard begins to untie the trunks from the boot of the carriage, "Your things will have to pass inspection before I can allow them within the castle walls."

The man ignores the intent stare Tarrant is giving him and replies in an irked tone, "Champion Alice, what could I possibly be attempting to transport other than what I have claimed?"

"I can't answer that," she replies. "But it is my job to ensure that your visit here poses no threats whatsoever. So. You can choose to submit yourself to a search of your person or you can make your own way back to Causwick Callion."

Although he is very unhappy about what he no doubt sees as a violation of his person, he consents. Alice instructs the senior member of the guard not to escort Jaspien into the castle until every weapon, potion, powder, or questionable item has been confiscated and destroyed. She then reaches for Tarrant's hand and strides up the drive, leaving the ruler of the Callion at the White Army's tender mercies.

"Do you think that was _really_ necessary?" Tarrant muses, his eyes gleaming with amusement.

Alice smirks. "Do I think he's actually planning an assassination or some such act of violence? No. However, it _is_ necessary in that we need a little time alone with Mirana to sort things out. And Jaspien needs to know that we still don't trust him." She tilts her head to the side, considering. "If he has any sense at all, he'll use this time to think about how he might take this chance to begin making amends for his past actions."

"Alice..." Tarrant warns her softly. "There _is_ no forgiveness for his treachery."

"None that _you_ would offer him," she corrects him.

"Aye. I cannae f'rgive his orderin' yer capture."

"I'm not asking you to, Raven." And she never will.

They climb the stairs and Alice smiles at Lakerton, who opens the front doors for them. Before she can ask to see the queen, Nivens scrambles into the foyer, nearly tangling up his legs and tripping himself in his haste.

"You're back! _You_'_re back!_ And you're _LATE!_" he insists without conferring with his pocket watch.

"A bad habit, I know," she replies wryly.

In true McTwisp fashion, the white rabbit doesn't even comment on Tarrant's left arm which is still cradled in a sling across his chest. Alice doubts he even notices though his irritation. "Well, come along! Come along! You mustn't keep her majesty waiting!"

"We're waiting on _ye_ teh announce us," Tarrant reminds him.

"Oh, goodness! Yes, follow me!"

They climb the stairs, stride down the hall, open the door - "Gently, please! I've been slammed more times than I can count in the last two days!" the doorknob begs pitifully – and then...

"Alice!"

"Mirana," Alice replies, wrapping her arms around the queen.

"You've heard... you know that... that..."

"Yes, although I should like to hear it once more, just to be sure. And," she continues, alternately patting her friend on the shoulder and rubbing her back, "I should very much like to know where the majority of the White Army is. The grounds seem rather... empty."

"Of course. Of course." The queen gathers herself and invites Alice and Tarrant to join her and the king in the sitting area of her office. They do and the queen reaches for her husband's hand as she confesses, "I ordered the army to Crimson Harbor."

Alice feels herself stiffen. She can easily imagine how that must have looked to the citizens of the White Realm, watching as the army had stormed its way through Underland...

"And?"

Mirana takes a deep breath. "I ordered them to detain the rebels _only._ To retrieve Tarra safely and bring her home."

"But?"

"But _this_," Mirana tells her, reaching for a roll of parchment and handing it to her. "It arrived last night. Bayne reported that Tarra delivered this _herself._ She stepped out to meet the army but she didn't – _wouldn_'_t..._"

Accepting it, Alice leans back in her chair and unfurls the document, reads it, and bites back a smile.

"A Champion's Challenge," she observes as neutrally as possible. Yes, her Belief in Tarra has not been misplaced. "The only thing that _could_ stop an assault from an army," Alice continues. "And the only thing that could prevent the army from bringing her home: she's vowed her services to the New Resistance and they are Challenging you. I believe she may have done you a great favor, Your Majesty."

Mirana gapes at her. "Alice... how can you _say_ that? She... _she..!_"

Alice briefly grasps Tarrant's hand and forces a cleansing breath. This is the moment, she sees, in which her musings in the carriage earlier will come to the forefront. She wishes she could have found a way to prepare her husband for this... but she is not sure it would have made a difference.

Alice stands, crosses the rug, and kneels at her friend's feet. "Mirana," she answers softly, "Your Majesty," continues with a glance toward the king, "Tarra is doing _precisely_ what I have trained her to do. She _is_ acting as _your_ Champion even now. And she is trusting us to bring her home. However, that route cannot be accomplished with an army escort."

She pauses as Tarrant's emotions begin to intensify through their now-imperfect connection. His mind is racing, she knows. He's thinking ahead, following the path of her logic and considering the only strategy that has a hope of resolving this issue once and for all. And he is not liking it. Not one bit.

"Your Majesties," Alice tells them both, hating that she must leave Tarrant to this discovery without the comfort of her touch, her physical presence. But her vows hold her here, now. There is nothing she can do for her husband. Not _now_. _Later_, however... "Allow me to answer the Challenge. Accept."

Mirana shakes her head. "But... _Alice!_ If we accept then we must meet on the battlefield and if you begin the duel..."

"One of us must die," Alice replies, trying to remain calm as Tarrant's agitation burns through Anxiety and approaches Terror-_Panic-__**Fury-MADNESS!**_ "Yes. That is the point, Your Majesties. These rebels... these _children_ have never seen Death. They think battle is glorious and honorable. We must show them precisely what it is they are seeking. Tarra will rally them all together – each and every one of them – and then we will show them Death." This declaration is met with silence. Alice concludes, "But I have not forgotten my promise to bring Tarra home safely. She will be. It won't be your daughter who falls. I promise."

"Alice..." the king pleads hoarsely. "We cannot..."

She sighs. "It is the best option for ending this peaceably and with as little bloodshed as possible. These children _want_ to fight. We must convince them that what they want is vile and not at all what they believe it to be." Alice turns toward the queen. "You have both raised children. You know they will not listen to reason, not when they believe they are in the right and we are in the wrong."

She stands. "Please, trust me in this." The words are not _only_ meant for the queen and king.

"Alice," Mirana begins, looking lost, distraught, on the verge of tears.

"You are not choosing your daughter's life over mine," Alice assures her. "_I_ am choosing her life. This is my choice. Please accept it. Let me show these children what war is. Let Tarra come home."

And because Mirana is a mother, she cannot do anything other than agree. She nods, tears rolling down her face.

Alice offers her most reassuring smile through the _burning_ of her Heart Mark. "If you'll excuse Tarrant and I for a moment...?"

"Oh! Of... of course," Mirana replies, clearly remembering that Tarrant _is _present. She glances around Alice to where he is no doubt gripping the right armrest of the chair with enough force to reshape the wood. Whatever she sees is _not _pleasant; Mirana cringes at the sight. "Come, Dale. We need to speak to the children."

As the queen leads her husband from the room, Alice turns, takes this moment to absorb the sight of her husband while he still has the means and the motivation to restrain himself. For what she has just sworn to do, she doesn't doubt he is furious enough to kill her himself. Or, more likely, hie away with her to Upland and smash every mirror in existence.

His eyes are the darkest red she has ever seen. The color matches his heart line – her blood – actually. His face is pale – too pale – and set as if carved from stone.

"I am not breaking my promise," she informs him softly, moving to kneel at _his _feet. "I am choosing us."

"You are choosing to _die_," he answers in the voice of the Blackness. Alice aches to touch him, but she doesn't. She knows what one touch could lead to and while she might not be opposed to confronting his violence and passion all at once, she knows that he would not be able to forgive himself for permitting the Blackness to control-_dominate-__**claim!**_her a _second _time.

"_Think_, Raven. There is a way."

His eyelids twitch as he does just that. He thinks. And his eye color begins to fade into a lighter, more rational hue.

"I will need your help," she tells him. "This is one of the things that only you and I can do... together. Please, Tarrant."

He is still furious – his orange irises and the simmering heat over her heart attest to that – but he is beginning to See...

"The queen needs us. Underland needs us," she reminds him. "And _I_ need _you_."

Alice dares to touch him, then. She places her hands on his knees and feels him shudder in reaction. She dares a bit more, rising to her feet and seating herself on his lap, careful of his left shoulder and arm – the Pain Paste will likely not have healed a stab wound that deep in only a handful of hours. She places her hands on his cheeks and presses her forehead to his.

"I need you," she pleads, her heart aching with his as his irises shift in color yet again; this time into the color of pure misery: black. She cannot bear the sight of it so she closes her eyes, but that only directs her attention to the emotions pouring out over her heart, drenching her in the flames of his desolation.

But she forces herself to say the words. This is the only way. The best way. And he _must Trust her!_

"Tarrant, I need you to help me die."

* * *

[End of Chapter 11: Scene 1 of 3]


	155. Book 4, Duty and Betrayal, 2 of 2

Scene 3 of Chapter Eleven is **rated M** for non-explicit sexual situations.

* * *

_**Chapter Eleven: Duty and Betrayal  
**_

[Scenes 2 & 3 of 3]

Tamial Hightopp – purveyor of the Past and sharer of Secrets – has been demoted, just as he'd expected.

That doesn't make him feel any better, though.

He watches from the parlor window as the carriage pulls away. The carriage in which Uncle Hamish and Win are riding. The carriage they will take to the company office to look up the name of the captain and each member of the crew that had sailed on the ship Lowell Manchester had left for America aboard. The carriage that will take them on their adventure. Or rather, the carriage they will use to complete _Tam'_s Adventure.

Yes, he's jealous. This time yesterday afternoon, this adventure had belonged to him and Win. Just the two of them. If he'd known that Uncle Hamish would be taking his place, he wouldn't have been so quick to confess to what they'd seen in the looking glass, that's for sure!

Or... is it?

Tam sighs. Last night, despite telling secrets and confessing to Things he Should Not Have Done – confessed _voluntarily!_ Without being caught or even suspected beforehand! – he had felt... Well, of course he'd been scared at the time. The things he'd seen had been scary. And thoughts of his punishment for being so reckless had been a little frightening. But, last night, he'd felt... stronger. Strong enough to take his punishments – whatever they would be – because it had been _more _important to help Win. Last night, he'd felt a little bit... heroic.

Today, however, he feels like a heel.

It could have been _him_ going out with Win, infiltrating Uncle Hamish's office during the man's "croquet match" and trying to deduce who might have done Lord Manchester's dirty work for him aboard the ship. Lowell hadn't boarded it already dead, of course! So... how had they done it? Had it been the captain and a poisoned bottle of liquor? Had it been a sailor and an argument over a card game? Had it been an anonymous shove during a storm, an "accidental" knock on the head?

Tam shivers. His Imagination is making his mind a very Dark and Unsettling place today. The weather doesn't help, either; it's raining. _Again._

He's tempted to go back upstairs to the looking glass and request a nice _sunny_ day to escape to!

At the thought of sunny days, Tam recalls the gardens around the castle at Mamoreal. He misses those warm days. He misses his friends. He wonders about Lanny and Ian... and he wonders about that little rath they'd found before Tam had been told to pack up his things.

"We're going home to Iplam," his Fa had said and, at the time, the words had made no sense whatsoever. Iplam had always been That Place Where We Spend A Few Weeks Every Summer Working Hard Building and Fixing Things. It had never been _home._ Not to Tam. The castle was – _is_ – home! And he misses everything about it:

His two best friends and the croquet pitch...

The four young jabberwockies that sometimes swoop down for a visit and the gossiping cherry trees...

Thackery's nonsensical and haltingly told tales as he bangs around in the kitchen...

Mally's stern lectures on the proper way to pass the sugar at tea...

The hat workshop...

The balconies...

The chatty doorknobs and grouchy keyholes and...

"Tamial? Are you all right?"

He looks up as Aunt Margaret lays a hand on his shoulder. He doesn't want her to see him cry, so he turns back to the window and glares out at the gray day and rain-drenched street.

"I wanted to go with them," he mutters.

She sighs. "And they would have invited you, but your father is very upset that you'd traveled through the looking glass without permission."

"You didn't _have _to tell them..." Oh, the betrayal! Why, when _he _grows up, he's going to be Different. No, _he_ won't run around telling adventuresome children's parents what they've been up to!

"Yes, I did, dear," she replies.

Well. There's really no way to argue with that. He huffs. _Grown ups!_

"When can I go home?" he asks, then winces when he realizes that "home" is in Iplam, _not _Mamoreal. He sighs. At least the weather's better there than it is here!

"Your father said he would come and get you tomorrow night."

Tam nods and, having nothing else to say to the woman who had turned coat and _ratted him out_, he heads out of the room and toward the stairs. As Tam has no interest in books or sewing or younger cousins, he finds himself in the dusty attic again.

He listlessly searches for that parasol that Aunt Margaret had requested but he hasn't been able to find yet. And still can't.

He wastes the rest of the day up there... with all of the other forgotten, useless, _homeless_ things.

* * *

After the Challenge – containing the queen's acceptance and Alice's signature – has been sent on its way to Crimson Harbor and the rebels (and Alice's own apprentice) there, Alice finds the royal family in the queen's tower parlor.

Over the years and with the birth of each child, rooms had been opened and refurbished along the spiral staircase; this tower has always been the home of Mirana's family. Always. Well... with one recent exception: Tarra had moved into Alice's old Champion's quarters the same day she had donned her uniform for the first time. And _this_ is not the first time Alice has had to interrupt the queen's private time with her family although this _is_ the first time doing so has unsettled her.

Yes, just as she had suspected – imagined, dreaded – they are _all_ taking this turn of events Very Badly. Tarrant especially. There is nothing Alice can do to change what must happen – and it _must _happen; after deliberating on the possible outcomes during the journey back to Mamoreal, Alice had realized that _this_ sacrifice must be made... she only hopes it will have the effect she hopes for – but her job now is to see to the queen and her children's safety and wellbeing. There will be time for Tarrant soon, she knows. But this – her _duty_ – must come first.

She opens the door, surveys the room, and calls forth every ounce of courage she has. She must show them that everything is fine. They must have confidence, faith, and an open mind or Alice's death will be for naught.

"I will show you that there is nothing to fear," Alice says, holding out a hand for Amallya to take. The young hattress is still in shock – hearing that your sister will fight for the enemy on the morrow _is_ rather startling news – so it takes the young woman a moment before she notices Alice's outstretched hand... and takes it. Mirana looks up from where she has pressed her face into Thacie's hair. Next to her, Alicibeth holds her mother's hand, looking very pale and drawn. Alice includes Chestor, Dalerian, Leivlan, and the king in her invitation. "Come with me."

They do.

She leads them through the castle corridors and up the winding stairs of the Far South Tower... to the room where Absolem still guards and oversees the Oraculum. When she opens the door, he is perched on the podium that holds the scroll. Waiting.

"Am I late?" she asks him with a wry smile.

His wings rise and fall in the approximation of an exasperated shrug.

"Yes," she continues, "but I'm sure you're used to it by now." She imagines Absolem would very much like to call her _stupid_ again and the memory of him doing so tickles her. She struggles to keep the humor from eking out: Tarrant would most definitely not welcome the sensation. Not now. Not today.

"Look," Alice invites the queen and Mirana steps forward to regard the silent oracle. The scene is the same as it has been for over a year:

Tarra stands with Leif beneath the arbor, his First Claw is on its leather cord but around _her_ neck and his expression is one of pure flunderwhapped wonderment.

"How could this _still _be the future if Tarra _isn_'_t_ still acting as your Champion?" Alice asks her and Mirana shudders, reaching out blindly for her. Alice gathers the queen in her arms as the king, whose paw is resting on his wife's back, takes his turn peering down at the scroll. Their children follow him.

Although everyone is still unnaturally silent, there is a measure of hope to it now that lifts the horrible weight from their shoulders and smooths the frowns of worry from their brows.

Mirana makes no move to untangle herself from her Champion's embrace and so Alice nods for the king to escort the children out the still open door. Gesturing, he gathers everyone and herds them into the stairwell.

"You see?" Alice whispers softly to the queen – her friend – as the door closes behind the king and the children. "Everything will be all right."

"No, no it won't!" Mirana insists. "How can you even _think _that when you will be dead and it will be _my daughter_ who has _murdered_ you?"

Alice places her hands on the queen's arms and gives her a gentle shake. "Stop. Stop this, Mirana, and _listen to me!_ I will _not _turn Tarra into a murderer. _I will __**not.**_"

The queen stakes a deep breath and opens her eyes.

Alice promises, "The hand that delivers my death will not be Tarra's."

Mirana's brow clears as Alice's oath is absorbed by the silence. But then she frowns in thought, "Alice, whose hand then, will it be?"

She reaffirms her grip on her friend's arms for a moment before dropping her hands. "I cannot tell you; please don't ask."

"But... I don't understand..."

"I know you don't and I'm sorry. But I need you to have faith in me, in my promise to put a stop to the rebellion, to bring your daughter home _safe_ and _unharmed._ Yes, she will be Changed by these events, but she will _not_ carry the stain of murder on her hands or soul."

Mirana examines Alice's face and Alice submits to the searching stare. After a long moment, the queen nods. "I believe you, Alice."

"Thank you."

For another moment, neither woman moves. And then Mirana sighs out a breath of relief. "Everything really will be all right," she says and, finally, it is not a question.

"Yes. And when the time is right, step forward and offer the rebels amnesty and open negotiations."

"Negotiations? You still believe they will want to fight after they watch you... _a woman... a __**wife**__ and __**mother**__..._ fall on the battlefield?"

Alice assures her, "It is my intention to turn them against Death, not War. The issues that gave rise to this rebellion will not have gone away. They must be addressed. We must find a way to allow the people of the White Realm to partake in _all _traditions that have shaped their heritage. Even fighting."

"But I have forbidden it. The risks... My vows..."

"I know. But you will find a way," Alice consoles her. "I trust _you_, Mirana, my most saganistute friend. You _will_ find a way."

The queen's eyes mist with tears and Mirana's voice quavers when she speaks. "I should forbid you to die, Alice. I will never forgive myself if I do not."

"Don't think on it," Alice tells her. "Think only of Tarra, of peace, of Underland. And yes, some sacrifices must be made for that, some concessions must be given. But it will not be in vain."

Mirana nods, defeated by Alice's logic. Alice reaches around her and raps on the door. A moment later, the king – who stands alone on the landing – opens it and ushers his wife outside.

"Are you coming with us?" he asks softly. The sadness in his eyes tells her that he had overheard their conversation. Alice doesn't mind; Mirana will need him to be strong for her and he will best accomplish that by understanding what she is facing.

"Not yet, Your Majesty," she replies in an equally soft tone.

He nods. "I shall leave the door open, then."

Alice watches them go and only when the door at the base of the turret has shut behind them does she turn back to Absolem.

"There is one thing – two things – I would like to know," she begins. He does not look surprised by this. But, then again, _nothing _surprises Absolem. "Will Tarrant be all right? Will Tam understand?"

For a long moment, Absolem does nothing. He gives her no indication that he had even heard her. But then he flaps his wings, rising over the Oraculum. With practiced ease, alights on one half of the scroll and walks it closed. He continues walking and, beneath the rolled up parchment, the top of the podium moves as well. Absolem measures out a length that seems agreeable to him and then, with a flick of one of his legs, kicks it open.

Alice steps forward and looks down at the scene. It is – undeniably – of the future, of the _distant_ future. And the scene is one that she once mentioned to Tarrant moments after she'd realized it might be Possible. And it is _more _than Possible. If all goes as planned, it will be Fact. A Future Fact.

She sighs. "Thank you, Absolem."

He nods and closes the Oraculum once more. There is no reason to linger now, so Alice turns toward the open door and makes her exit.

She knows where she has to go next. She follows her feet through the castle, taking a path that is as familiar as it is missed. She goes home: to her and Tarrant's and Tamial's apartment, where her husband is waiting for her.

"He's in a foul mood," the keyhole warns her.

"Yes, I can Feel it," she agrees and opens the door.

The room looks exactly as they'd left it when they'd left for Iplam. White sheets are still draped over the furniture. Aside from the un-sheeted looking glass through which they had sent their son to London only days earlier, Tarrant is the only source of _real_ness in the entire room of ghostly, vague shapes.

"You took the sling off," she observes.

"I'm fine," he insists. In the wake of his declaration, the silence somehow seems more... alive, inescapable, malicious.

"Margaret sent a letter while we were... away," he lisps, not looking up from the closed book in his hands. "It's on the table."

Alice doesn't alter her course to collect it. She sits beside him on the sofa and wraps her arms around his shoulders. "What did she say?"

He leans his head against hers and lets out a breath. "Tam has gotten into trouble. Galumphing about London with Winslow. Opening up looking glasses and traveling into the past."

"Did he?"

"Saw Hamish and Lowell's duel. Your sister wants to know if that's really possible."

"And did you reply?"

"Aye."

She waits a moment, but when he doesn't elaborate, she gently teases, "And you told her that anything is possible so long as you believe it is?"

He takes a deliberate breath, swallows, and then reaches for her arm.

"I cannae do this," he declares, not looking up from the tome in his lap. "Please, Alice. Let us save Underland another way."

Alice pets his hair and inhales his scent. She doesn't answer his plea with words. Anything she would say at this point would merely be a siren's call to the madness and she wants him sane. She will not waste a moment with him; she will not let the madness take that from him, from her, from _them_.

Instead, she collects the book – an encyclopedia of anatomy that had once been part of her mother's library – and sets it aside. She'd shown him earlier precisely which diagrams they will need to concern themselves with. Alice knows she will not be able to avoid _all_ pain, but she is not interested in tormenting herself, either.

She takes her husband's right hand and presses it against her skin, positioning his fingers _just so._ He caresses the unmarred flesh with his fingertips and his gaze focuses on the area. Tomorrow morning, she will be cut open, bleeding... _dying_...

"No," he whispers, snatching his hand away and pulling her close. She falls gracelessly in his lap, clutches his shoulders with her hands. "No," he insists. "_No_."

She wants to tell him that everything will be fine; she has seen the future in the Oraculum, after all. She _knows_ that they have only to follow the path that is before them and everything will be just fine. But Tarrant takes no comfort from that document. He trusts prophecies – _"And with his Vorpal Sword in hand..."_ – not rolls of dried up vellum, the images upon which have been known to change from time to time.

Alice closes her eyes and draws upon a line of poetry that had caught her eye one night when she'd been quizzing Tam on his lessons:

"_In a blaze of pragmatic invention, he shall wrestle with Fate, and shall reign..._"

"... _Alice_..."

She turns toward the warm breath against her cheek and groans into Tarrant's hot, insistent, wet mouth. She forgets about the queen, about Jaspien, about the battle on the morrow, about the sacrifice she will make, about the hearts that will be broken.

She gives herself to him and he Takes her. She is his to do with whatever he desires, whatever he must.

He is not gentle.

But, then again, she has never asked him to be.

When his hands tremble, when he leans over her and hesitates, she reaches for him, calls him back to her with a touch, assures him that he is not alone. She is still here. Still _his._ She takes in the pain from his heart, halves it, marvels at the intensity of his despair. If she had believed he were capable of answering coherently, she might have asked him why...

_Why...?_

But she doesn't ask and he cannot say.

Which is fine, in the end. They Speak with hands and lips, legs, hips, and tight grips.

No words are necessary.

* * *

Notes:

1. The line Alice quotes is from "The Manlet" from The Hunting of the Snark and Other Poems and Verses. Lewis Carroll. New York: Harper & Brothers, 1903.

2. Why does it have to be Alice who dies and not, say, Tarrant who is also a Champion of Underland? The answer to that is actually very simple and if you can guess it before I "explain" it in the story, I will be one Happy Author. (^_~)

3. And now we see why the scene from the Oraculum (which Mirana first witnessed in the Epilogue of Book 3) is important. Indeed, how can Tarra and Leif still be together in the future if she has betrayed her family? The answer, of course, is: they can't. Hence Alice's faith in her apprentice.

* * *

[End of Chapter 11]


	156. Book 4, Lessons in War, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Twelve: Lessons in War  
**_

[Scenes 1 & 2 of 4]

Tamial Hightopp – man of Action and defier of Parental Declarations! – pokes his head out of the mirror and listens very carefully. He examines the room in front of him, recognizing the sheet-covered furniture and thanks his parents' oversight: they had _not_ recovered the looking glass after all!

When only silence tumbles into his ears and stillness unfolds before his eyes, Tam grins and steps through the mirror completely.

He's _home._

_Finally!_

Oh, he knows he'll have to go back to London soon – before Aunt Margaret comes to wake him for breakfast – but for now he can sleep in his own bed! Perhaps on his familiar mattress, he'll be able to escape the nightmares that had stalked him last night!

He tiptoes over to the living room window and pulls back the curtain. It's dawn. The line of the Witzend-side horizon is darkening against a softly glowing sky. Wispy clouds dance slowly against the backdrop of pale gold.

Yes, the weather is most _definitely_ better here!

The motions of the cherry trees, their boughs waving in the breeze, draw his gaze and Tam sighs with contentment at the sight. How he has _missed this place!_

He turns and surveys the apartment, frowning at the open door to his parents' room. He peeps through the portal and notes the utter... _chaos_ within. Bed sheets and pillows – two of which had been separated from their cases! – litter the floor. Even the curtains are askew! The wardrobe doors are open and changes of clothes are scattered all over the place. Even...

_Is that a... __**sock**__ on top of the dresser mirror?_

Tam's brows arch upward with incredulity.

"Well. Something... happened in here..."

And considering the people to whom this room belongs and the activities he has caught them at once before (only once, thank the Fates!), Tam would rather not think in any more detail on the matter, thank you very much!

He turns away and reconsiders the mirror. Should he go back through? If his Mam and Fa walk through the front door and catch him here...

Tam frowns and considers his options. Yes, he _would_ like to sleep a bit longer in his _own_ bed... but is it worth the risk? Perhaps another bedroom in the castle would do just as well. Now he'll just have to find one that's not in use.

He creeps to the front door and pauses to listen again. Gently, mindful of the keyhole's snores, he eases the portal open and slips into the hall. The very, _very _silent hall.

He scowls. Yes, it's early in the morning, but even at times like this there is _some_ noise echoing in the corridors: fish butlers dusting, frog footmen delivering tea trays, and everyone knows Thackery is up early banging away in the kitchen and _that _racket echoes for _miles!_

Tam sneaks down the hallway, toward the stairs. He encounters no one, only Silence. It's not until he's making his way past the terrace that overlooks the training field that he hears _any_ sounds of life at all!

"No, no! You've got to hold it up higher. Yes, like that!"

_Thwack!_

"Ow!"

"You dunce! What did you let it go for?"

"... got a splinter in my thumb."

"Oh for...! Come on. Your turn now."

Tam approaches the edge of the terrace and peers over the railing. There, on the pitch, two boys are facing off to do battle with wooden swords. Two boys Tam knows _very _well!

"Lanny! Ian!" he shouts, forgetting his priority to remain stealthy and undetected.

Lanny pauses in mid swing and looks up, shading his eyes. "Tam? What are you doing here?"

"Aren't you supposed to be in Upland?"

Tam smirks and skips down the stairs. "Well... yes, I am," he admits, grinning.

The twin princes gape at him, then at each other, and then they grin.

"Awesome!" they chorus.

"How'd you get back by yourself?" Ian presses.

"Through the looking glass," Tam replies, his chest puffing up. "Of course."

"Of course? _Of course?_" Ian stutters.

Lanny rushes to confirm, "So, you figured out how to do it?"

"I'll show you later _if _you don't tell anyone I was here!"

"Deal!"

They shake on it.

"So..." Tam muses, taking a moment to take a good look around. "Where is everyone?"

The twins' eyes widen until Tam fears they'll topple right out of their sockets and find their way into luncheon soup. "You don't _know?_" Lanny whispers, clearly scandalized.

"Know what?"

"About the battle!" Ian informs him.

"What battle?"

"That battle between two Champions, of course," a new voice inserts.

Tam turns and watches as Maevyn waddles around the corner with what appears to be a suspiciously Thrambleberry-juice colored stain on its jaw.

"Which two champions?" Tam asks, his heart pounding so loud his manners tumble right out of his mind.

"Princess Tarranya and Alice," the jabberwocky replies absently.

Tam gapes at Maevyn then turns and gapes at the twins. "Why are you still _here?_"

Ian winces and Lanny grumps, "We're not allowed to go. Bethie's watching us."

Tam cranes his neck and searches the pitch, the orchard, the castle windows. "Well... I don't see her here watching us _now..._ do you?"

Ian grins. Lanny giggles. Tam turns toward Maevyn.

"What?" the young jabberwocky asks, looking up from licking its berry-juice-coated claws.

Tam eyes the creature's back and muses, "How many bushels of Thrambleberries would it cost us for you to give us a ride?"

* * *

The first hint Tarra had been given that not everything was as it appeared to be – the first hint that she had not been the _hunter_, as she'd thought, but the _prey_ – had come the moment Abler Masonmark had held out a hand to her as she'd half-sat, half-lain on the floor of the tunnel, trying desperately not to crush the dormouse hiding in her cloak hood. He had calmly held out his hand to help her up and she had Known.

As he had pulled her to her feet, she had taken a moment to marvel: he'd played her, damn his slithy, shrifty black heart. And here she'd been so proud of herself for playing _him!_

From the outset, he had been part of her game. Tarra – or, rather _Dirka Worthwool_ – had drawn Abler Masonmark in. Not because she had liked _him _(Eugh! The very _idea_ turns her stomach!) but because she had needed to be _noticed._ She'd been a newcomer to town – unavoidably noticeable – but with the _other_ newcomers that had followed in her wake, Tarra had known that it was up to her to draw as much attention to herself – and away from _them_ – as possible. For a moment, she had been _furious._ This assignment had been given to _her!_ Not to Mallymkun and Bayto! Not to that blasted boy lion lurking in the shadows!

_But no,_ she'd thought to herself. _Calm, Tarra. Control. Change the rules of the game, just as Mistress Alice taught you._

And she had. She had allowed them to follow her, had allowed them the privilege of listening for the muttermongings. She had tacitly joined their team, been their diversion. For the first day, she had managed quite well, she'd thought, despite the lack of inflammatory rumors. But each following day, her task had gotten harder, the weight of her responsibilities heavier, the loneliness... sharper.

_"Fight the battle that_'_s in front of you, ahead of you..."_

She had taken Mistress Alice's words to heart, had not looked over her shoulder, had not shown her cards, had not revealed the fact that she is always followed by her mother's most trusted allies. She had thought – on several occasions – that she had been needlessly overcautious.

Obviously, she had not expected Abler to turn out to be the leader of the rumored resistance movement against the White Queen.

Her first reaction to this revelation had been jubilation: perhaps she'd under-appreciated Luck; the fellow _is _a rather useful friend to have at your back!

But, as she'd looked up into Abler's triumphant expression there in the dark, dank tunnel beneath the Orash orchards surrounding Crimson Harbor, she'd wondered: _had _it been Luck to lead her to the very object of her search? Or had Abler suspected who she really was when he'd strutted up to her in the bakery that first day? Had _she_ been played?

She'd played back, just as Mistress Alice had taught her to do:

_"Infiltrate their ranks. By any means necessary. Count their numbers. Gain their trust. And make the game __**yours.**__"_

Yes, Tarra has done – and is doing – that very thing! Yes, now... now, she's not just playing Abler Masonmark; she's playing _all of them._

Still, those first moments had been frightening. She had stood there, in the dark with the flickering torches surrounding her, held aloft by too many to fight. Abler had stood too close to her, his hand on her arm, his fingers ready to grasp, trap, _take..._

The warning that she had been played had come far too late for her to turn back. It had come when the only path left open to her had been the one onward and forward into unforgivable and terrifying territory.

But Mistress Alice had prepared her for this:

_"Fight the battle that's in front of you and ahead of you: you cannot undo your missteps. Your footwork must be better than your opponent's. Run rings around him, Tarra."_

To hesitate in the face of Discovery – to try to fight the facts as she had faced more than a dozen armed rebels – would have been the end of her and the end of the mission; she had allowed the guise of Dirka Worthwool to fall away; she had moved forward, her bearing regal despite her mussed hair and the dull, uninspiring color of it. There had been no point in pretending she is not the daughter of the very woman they seek to depose. There had been no point in pretending she is not strong, a warrior, a fighter trained by the best Champion in the known history of the White Realm. There had been no point in hiding, in backtracking, in even looking over her shoulder at the might-have-beens with regret.

Tarra had been trained _very _well and she knows that the first hint that her disguise has been found out, that her motives have been questioned, will be her _last _if she is not very _fast _and very _Alice-y._

_"Run rings around him, Tarra. __**Run.**__"_

She had done just that. _Is _doing just that.

She _runs_ but she does not run _away._

"Are ye ready fer this?"

Tarra glances briefly in Abler's direction as he – _yet again!_ – finds it impossible to keep his blasted hands to himself. She thinks longingly of a hot bath and forces herself not to step away from the warm hand nestled against her lower back. Still, she's allowed to have a _bit _of fun, isn't she?

Tarra winks at Corea's blatantly jealous stare. Yes, Corea had managed – thank the Fates! – to convince Abler to share her pallet the night before but _she_'_s_ not the one he has chosen to stand with here on the battlefield, is she? Tarra knows she shouldn't rile the girl – the poor thing is obviously in love with the worthless tail feather of a frumious borogove – but... she can't help it!

"Am I ready?" she echoes, grinning out at the sea of broken, cracked, weed-crowded tiles. "I was _born_ ready."

The rebel force finds this highly amusing. The ten dozen or so just-turned men and women, and even some creatures that Abler has rallied to his cause, all find a reason to laugh at her overconfident words. Abler finds this particularly reassuring and not only removes his hand from her person but also strides off, no doubt to inspect something or otherwise make himself look Very Important.

Yes, she has charmed the enemy very nicely. Well, except for Corea, everyone laughs at Tarra's wit and bravado. Their two captives, however, do not seem to share their... _rebellious _sense of humor.

"Tarra, please," Leif rumbles too softly for anyone to hear over the chuckles and giggles and bellows of laughter. "You can _see_ where this path leads. Turn away now."

She feels her temper flash. Her shoulders tense. She opens her mouth and, surprisingly, the words of accusation she had _intended_ to say get lost, confused, reordered. She hears herself ask in a tone that is too serious, too loud, "Turn away? I suppose I could... but would you respect me in the morning, lion man?"

Yes, her tone had been too serious but she has the presence of mind to force a smirk onto her lips. The gesture feels stiff, unnatural. It unsettles her as nothing she has done so far has managed to do.

Masonmark and his army laugh. They laugh as if they hear a joke and not a very Serious Challenge taking place right here, out in the open, in their very midst.

Tarra tilts her head to the side and puts a hand to her ear, miming like a clown, entertaining and distracting the masses. "Ah, _finally._ I think I hear the melodious steps of an arriving army. Here," she continues, pulling off her cloak with a flourish and laying it gently over Leif's bound hands. "Make yourself _useful_ and hold this," she instructs him with a wink.

The Outlander lads and lasses roar with laughter, slap their thighs, snort behind their hands. They are enjoying the show too much to notice that a hat pin armed dormouse has slipped out from inside the hood of Tarra's cloak and is making her way toward the rough twine knotted around Leif's wrists. With a nod of satisfaction and a widening smile of triumph, Tarra turns her back to him and gazes out across the battlefield.

She watches as the White Army approaches in ordered ranks. Her gaze moves from her mother, riding atop her faithful steed, Alfred, to her father who is carried by her brother's friend and steed, Winsommer. The Bandersnatch gambols forward and then lurches to a halt only two dozen paces away. From his shoulders, Mistress Alice – resplendent in her gleaming armor, slides to the ground. Uncle Tarrant, dressed in his clan colors, steps up beside her.

For a moment, Tarra is proud to be a member of such a strong, fierce family.

But then she remembers:

She has a job to do; in fact, it is nearly finished. It smarts that _she _won't be the one to deliver the Killing Blow – so to speak – to these rebels. She'd like to be able to take all the credit for the coming victory. But she consoles herself with worthwhile facts: Tarra's role is _necessary_ and she has played it well. Better than "well"! She has played it _perfectly!_

Still, she wonders... how _exactly _is Mistress Alice going to finish this mission? Tarra had issued that Challenge to _stop_ the White Army from attacking, to save her mother (dear Fates, had the woman forgotten her Vows _completely?_) from making a horrible mistake. Tarra had _not _expected her mentor to actually _accept_ the Challenge!

_What will happen now?_ Tarra wonders uneasily as she glares across the plain at her teacher's hardened expression. Mistress Alice had never taught her _this _lesson. She would like to believe that Mistress Alice had not found the time or had simply forgotten to mention the protocol for situations like this... but Tarra knows that is not possible: Alice doesn't _forget_ things like that. And it irritates Tarra to realize that her mentor had likely _intended_ for her to be less than completely self-sufficient, less that a True Champion.

_When this is all over, you_'_ll have some explaining to do,_ Tarra silently informs her teacher. _When this is all over, I_'_ll expect to receive the __**rest**__ of my education!_

After all, Tarra thinks as she considers her recent accomplishments, she has _earned_ it!

* * *

[End of Chapter 12: Scenes 1 & 2]


	157. Book 4, Lessons in War, 2 of 2

This entry is **rated M** for violence and gore.

* * *

_**Chapter Twelve: Lessons in War  
**_

[Scenes 3 & 4 of 4]

Tamial Hightopp – Jabberwocky Pilot and Fearless Adventurer of Daring-Do! – realizes he's made a _slight_ error in logic as he clutches Maevyn's neck and the wilderness sweeps past beneath them. Yes, the promise of seeing his Mam _finally _ doing her job as Champion to the White Queen and the resulting rush of excitement had made Tam completely forget about Aunt Margaret, the breakfast call, and an unfortunately vacant bed in the guest room on the other side of the looking glass.

Oops.

But then he shrugs. So they find out. So he gets into trouble... _again._ He'll think about that later. _This_ will be worth it, he's sure! In fact, now that he thinks about it, why _did_ his Fa say he'd come and collect him _tonight?_ Why wouldn't his Fa and Mam want him to _see_ this?

Well, that hardly matters now!

Over Maevyn's crest, Tam can make out the ruins at the battlefield. True, he's never been here before, but Uncle Thackery had described it _lots _ of times... back when he'd been allowed to tell Tam bedtime stories.

Tam smiles at the memory.

Then sighs. He misses Thackery's bedtime stories. He misses the days when he'd been ten years old. He misses... _home._

"There they are!" Lanny shouts, pointing over Tam's shoulder and directing his attention to the much-closer battlefield.

"And they've already started the duel!" Ian moans with disappointment.

"Land over there!" Tam says, "on the tower ruins."

"Hm... all right. I think I can manage that."

Tam blinks. "_Excuse me?_ "

"Oh? Didn't I mention I'm still working on my landings?"

"Er... _no._ "

"Oh," Maevyn remarks and then, thoughtfully, adds: "Sorry."

Tam locks his jaw and grits his teeth to keep the unmanly scream from escaping him as the jabberwocky dives with sudden intent toward the crumbling stone sentinel. For a moment, he considers closing his eyes, but no! He will be brave and if this is the end, then he will meet Death head on! He will...!

"Ooof!" he grunts, as Maevyn skids across the largest flat space available, flounders with much scraping and scrabbling of claws, and then _halts_ with a suddenness that sends Tam cartwheeling over the jabberwocky's neck and landing flat on his back on the stone.

"Ow," he informs his transportation.

"All right?" Maevyn inquires solicitously, its brows crinkling together with concern.

"I'm docking you a bushel for that."

The jabberwocky snorts.

"Come on, Tam! Get up!" Ian urges him, grabbing one of his arms. Lanny grabs the other.

"Feel pain _later! _ Just lookit _that!_ "

Tam scrambles to his feet and then stumbles to his knees between his friends. They brace their hands on a fallen column and watch as the two combatants clash swords, pivot away before turning back, blades swinging.

"Wow..." Ian intones.

Tam is too busy staring to add to the commentary. That must be Tarra in the leather jerkin and hide shin guards because _That_ gleam of silver steel is his Mam's armor. From when she'd slain the Jabberwocky and had ended the Red Queen's reign. Sir Fenruffle had told them the story and had taken them to see the suit of armor once. This is the first time he's ever seen his Mam actually _in_ it, though, and... well, she hardly looks like his Mam at all!

Her expression is fierce yet she doesn't seem to be in any hurry at all to finish the fight. He watches as she blocks another thrust from Tarra's sword. Tam tears his attention away long enough to search for his Fa and...

_There!_ Tam sighs out a breath of relief when he spies his Fa standing three paces out beyond the front lines. He can't make out the color of his Fa's eyes at this distance, but his hands are twitching. Maybe Tam's sigh of relief had been a bit... premature?

He looks back at the Champions battling in the center of the field. His Mam relents under Tarra's sudden fury of attacks, approaching the front line of the White Army. She's only six paces or so away from his Fa when, suddenly, his Mam moves so swiftly he doesn't even catch the motion that nearly knocks the sword from Tarra's hands. Her grips is strong, though, and she doesn't let go. She twists with the blow and falls to her knees rather than drop the weapon.

"I expected more... enthusiasm," Tam hears his Mam sneer with surprising aggression. "Especially when I've most considerately obliged you with a second chance to slice open my throat."

Tarra climbs to her feet.

His Mam steps forward, sword at the ready...

She swings, misses and...!

Tam gasps as Tarra lifts her sword and arcs it through the air. His Mam's arms are lowered, her throat exposed above the gleaming collar of her armor and...!

Tam reaches out for his friends as Disaster unfolds right before them.

The blade reaches out, is nearly level with his Mam's neck, and then...!

And then...

And then all is Silent.

Still.

Frozen.

Tam tries to blink, to move, to say... well, to say _something!_

He can't. Out of the corner of his eye and to his left, Lanny is perfectly still. To his right, Ian's expression is a mask of dawning horror. And before him... _before him...!_

Tam watches as his Fa steps forward hesitantly. "Alice," he whispers and Tam hears an odd lisp in his voice. His Fa _never_ lisps unless... unless...

"Please, Alice," he murmurs yet, in the perfect Silence, the sound carries.

His Mam steps away from the sword tip that is nearly kissing her throat and turns toward his Fa. She holds out her hand which Tam sees is completely bare... which seems odd to him although he can't be sure _why_ . His Fa crosses the utterly motionless scene and takes it. "I need you," she says and Tam cannot understand how her voice can be so strong at a time like this. "Underland needs you. These children need you. Please."

And then his Fa lifts his hands to his Mam's face, cradles it in his palms, and kisses her. "I luv ye, my Alice."

And then it all happens so fast Tam would have been shocked breathless if he'd been capable of breathing at all:

His Mam turns back to Tarra's blade, reaches for it with her right hand and runs her open palm along the sword's edge.

Blood, dark and red, drips onto the steel.

His Fa steps up behind her, places a hand on her forehead and pulls her head back against his shoulder. His face is twisted with such pain _Tam_ feels the ache even though he does not understand it... and then he lifts his other arm, reveals a knife in his grasp and presses the blade against his Mam's throat...

And slices it open.

Blood spurts and his Fa leaps back toward the White Army and then...

And then...!

And then everything is in motion again.

Tam watches – frozen despite the fact that he _can_ move now if he wants to! – as his Mam doubles over, reaches for her slit throat with her right hand and stumbles back.

"_Alice!_ " Tam twitches, recognizing the force of his Fa's scream. He stares, unable to move – to _think –_ as his Fa races to his Mam's side. He does not reach her before she falls. She tries to stay standing but the blood... there is _so much blood!_ Red and strange and _his Mam_'_s blood!_ And she braces herself on the stones with her left hand – When had she dropped her sword? He can't remember hearing it fall. – and she looks up at Princess Tarra. Tarra, whose face and jerkin are splattered with red blood, whose blade is dripping with it...

His Mam _looks_ at her... opens her mouth to speak... and gurgles instead. His Fa reaches her then, as the blood seeps out over her lips.

"_Alice... Alice... Alice..._" he cries softly. From this vantage point Tam can see his Fa's hands lowering Mam gently to the ground, reaching for a handkerchief and then beginning to work swiftly at her neck. "_Ye cannae leave me, Alice... Ye _ _ **promised...** _ _ Us... _ _ **us...** _ "

Tam watches the color drain from his Mam's face. The blood is too dark and her skin is too white and her eyes become glassy and wide. Her hand flutters weakly upward, to his Fa's face, which she touches briefly before her arm drops and her left hand – the heart line so stark it is nearly black – rolls over... and is still.

_"You_'_ve forgotten your gauntlets, Alice."_

It's an utterly ridiculous thing to think, an utterly pointless memory to draw upon, in the wake of what she has just seen:

Alice's taunt and faulty attack...

Tarra's blade arching up... and then slicing through her throat.

The blood – unsettlingly red – had sprayed so quickly Mirana had not even see it travel through the air... but there it is: undeniably dripping down her daughter's pale face just as it had undeniably run in rivulets between the fingers of Alice's right hand which had clutched reflexively at the gash in her throat... a pathetic and pointless attempt to stop the bleeding.

"You've forgotten your gauntlets, Alice," Mirana had observed as her Champion had lifted her sword, ready to step out and meet the queen's second daughter.

"No, I haven't," Alice had said in a soft, confident voice. Mirana had heard a small hiccup come from Tarrant in response to that, had wondered about it...

But now... now Mirana understands why gauntlets had not been needful today.

She stares at the fallen form of her Champion, at her pale, outstretched had... at the heart line that stretches up her third finger and toward her wrist. Tarrant's mutters are barely audible over the shock that has rendered her mind utterly useless. From this vantage point, with his back to the opposing army, she can see his hands working _furiously_ to save Alice's life. But a wound like that, from a blade like the one Tarra had been holding... Even the alchemist in her cannot feel that there is any hope.

She stares, as everyone else stares, in silence.

"No... _NO!_ _ ** MAM!**_ "

Mirana startles as a voice – a young boy's voice – echoes across the field. She forces her gaze away from Alice, her now-lifeless friend and fallen Champion, and watches – heart screaming in agony and tears gathering – as Tamial Hightopp races down the crumbling steps of the ruins. The very steps his mother had descended over twenty years ago... after slaying the Jabberwocky.

"_**MAM!** _ "

He races across the field, pushes his way through the silent and shocked rebels, dashes past Tarra who stands frozen, sword still frozen at the conclusion of its arc, bosom still heaving with exertion, and then Tam crashes to a halt on his knees beside his mother's body. Tarrant, oddly enough, is silent now. Utterly silent... and still. His shoulders are bowed. His head hangs. His hands are pressed – uselessly – against Alice's bloody throat. He is... defeated.

Alice is Gone. Mirana can only guess what will become of his mind now.

She blinks at that thought, shakes herself. Yes, yes, she must act _quickly!_

But before she can take a breath, her daughter sinks to her knees, drops her sword and says, simply, "No... _No..._"

It is Leif, surprisingly enough, who reaches her first, who puts his unbound paws on her shoulders and holds her steady.

Movement atop the battlefield ruins draw her gaze and she has to clench her hands into fists at the sight of her two youngest sons standing beside one of the young jabberwockies. Yet another tragedy today: she had not wanted Dalerian or Leivlan to see... this. She glances toward her husband who is also glaring up at the boys a top the ruined tower. Yes, he will handle _them_ . Now, she must handle _this._

Now, Mirana judges, aching for her sons – _Their innocence is well and truly lost now!_ – aching for her daughter – _She is a murderer now!_ – and aching for Alice – _Why did you lie to me? Everything is _ _ **not** _ _ all right!_ – aching for Tarrant and Tamial and...

Now, the queen realizes... Now is the time to make the most of Alice's sacrifice. Now is the time to honor her requests: amnesty and negotiations.

Those objectives seem so... petty now. But, petty or not, they are what Alice has given her life for. Mirana must not allow that to have been in vain. Still, she cannot forgive them so quickly, not with Alice's body cooling on the stones just a dozen paces away.

She draws in another breath and the White Queen speaks, "Is this what you wanted?" The question is softer than she'd intended for it to be but that makes it no less audible. "Death? Is this what you sought? Are you satisfied?"

For a long moment, no one answers. And then...

"_How could you!_" The scream, surprisingly enough is not from Tarrant... it is from Tamial. And it is _not _ directed at Tarra. "_How could you do this to her?_" His voice cracks and gurgles with his tears. Tamial Hightopp _glares _ at his father. "Mam..." Tamial visibly struggles to say more. Struggles... and fails. "_Mam...!_"

"Yer Mam..." Tarrant whispers brokenly. "Woul'nae wan' ye teh see her _this way._ "

Mirana concurs and nods for a pair of soldiers to step forward. They do, collecting Tam despite his flailing arms and kicking legs, and pull him off of the battlefield. The fight is not over with yet and Mirana will not tolerate another _avoidable _ death. Not here. Not today.

She gazes at her daughter who has never looked so drawn, so beaten. And then Mirana turns her gaze back to her Champion's body. So still. So pale. Alice, her _friend_, is Gone.

"What is it you want?" the White queen asks. "What did this wife, this _mother_, die for?"

Mirana forces herself to look away, to look out at the sea of shocked faces, many of which are streaked with tears. She aches to run to her daughter, to comfort her, but she cannot. Not yet. Tarra is inconsolable yet silent, still kneeling at Alice's feet with Leif's arms around her.

"_SPEAK!_" Mirana shouts, frustrated and grieving and a dozen other things that threaten to tear her apart.

"Th' righ' teh bear arms," one young man says in a gravely voice. "We wan'teh b' proud o' our ancestry as figh'ers. 'Tis all."

"Then..." Mirana forces herself to say recalling Alice's instructions. "We will discuss terms..."

"O' surrender?" the young man finishes. It should have been a remark laden with defiance and victory... but it rings out... hollowly.

Still, it must be answered. Alice, the White Queen's Champion has fallen. Which means...

Mirana draws in a breath, prepares the White Queen's answer...

"No."

At the sound of _that _ voice, Mirana turns, feels her jaw drop, and hears herself gasp as Alice...

_Alice...!_

Alice, with Tarrant's assistance, sits up, still clutching the bloodied handkerchief to her throat. Her face is still so pale Mirana fears she will fade into nothing even without the assistance of the blood of the Jabberwocky.

"No," she repeats on a croaking whisper of breath and, summoning her strength, she lifts her sword with her left hand and points the quivering blade at Tarra's heart. "_We_ do not surrender."

"However," Mirana hears herself say as the miracle of Alice's _life_ unclogs her throat, un-cremates her heart, unfreezes her mind. "We offer you amnesty and we wish to hear your claims in detail... so that negotiations may begin."

"Negotiations?" the young man snorts in hysteric disbelief.

"Yes," Mirana says, understanding Alice's plan in a flash of insight. "No one has lost their life. It is not too late to withdraw... and begin again."

For a very long moment, no one moves. Alice continues to hold the blade unsteadily over Tarra's heart and Tarra does not protest. She stares into the chalky-white face of her teacher... and says nothing.

The young man who had spoken, who had introduced himself at the beginning of the duel as Abler Masonmark, takes a deep breath. Slowly, he nods. And then sheathes his sword. The others follow suit.

"_Mam?_"

Alice does not – cannot turn her head toward her son – but she drops the sword and reaches out to him. The guards wait for Mirana's nod of acquiescence, which she gives, to release their charge.

Tamial is across the field and wrapping his arms around his mother in the next instant.

"So sorry, Tam," Mirana hears Alice rasp as she alternately clutches her son and her husband with her left hand. "So sorry you saw..."

And yes, Tamial _did _ see.

Just as the rebels now _See._

Just as Tarra now _Sees._

Reclining against her husband's chest is Underland's True Champion.

Mirana regards her friend, who has – amazingly – survived despite her injury...

Yes... that very _distinct_ injury, Mirana muses, considering its location and severity... and its likeliness to scar...

Tears fill her eyes as Mirana looks upon a woman who is and will _always_ be a Champion.

* * *

[End of Chapter 12]


	158. Book 4, Unbreakable Promises, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Thirteen: Unbreakable Promises  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

Later, after Mirana has inspected not only Alice's throat but also the stitches Tarrant had so swiftly sewn on the battlefield and the Pain Paste he had immediately applied, she asks, "How did you manage this?"

Alice answers simply, wearily, honestly, "With an Uplander anatomy text."

"Elaborate, please, Alice," her friend orders her.

She does, explaining that while Uplanders have vital blood vessels on either side of their throats, when the head is pulled back and the esophagus exposed a cut to the throat need not be fatal. So long as it is not too deep. "I invited Tarra to try for my throat, judged the distance and... well, since Tarrant already had the needle and thread and the Pain Paste at the ready..."

"You stepped into the blade, trusting your Hatter would be able to stitch you up in a thrice," Mirana summarizes, glaring at the clean handkerchief now wrapped around Alice's throat.

"No one sews faster in all of Underland."

"You are a fool."

"A Champion. Same thing."

"I should not forgive you. You endangered your life and frightened my daughter... frightened _me._"

"I don't deserve forgiveness, most especially not from Tarra," Alice admits, looking up across the field where Leif is assisting her onto Winsommer's back. She still looks utterly lost; her expression is vacant and pale beneath the splatters and smears of blood that Leif had tried – and failed – to wipe off with his sleeve cuffs. Alice feels a twinge at the sight of her: a broken might-have-been Champion.

Well, there is still time for Tarra to recover. And she may yet. But _now_ the young woman knows what it feels like to take a life. _Now_ she Understands what she, as a Champion, must sacrifice for the White Crown.

The queen sighs, drawing Alice's gaze back to their on-going discussion.

Alice smiles. "Mirana. I'm a Champion. I fight. I use whatever weapons are at my disposal to win. It's not honorable. I know that. But that's what I do. And I won't ever change." It feels good to say those words out loud, finally. To _feel _the truth of them: yes, she _is _a Champion... and nothing has the power to change that. "Well, unless I die, I suppose." Yes, Death would certainly bring her Champion days to an End.

Her friend – the queen – sighs once more and then smiles. "Yes," Mirana agrees sadly. "I know."

She rubs Alice's shoulder then looks up. Alice watches through blearily focused eyes as she gestures someone to come closer and, a moment later, Maevyn clatters into view. With a satisfied nod at Alice's new companion, the queen excuses herself: "I believe I would like to have a word with my daughter..."

Alice grins at the still-young and gangly jabberwocky. "I've you to blame for transporting my son to this battle?"

The juvenile ruffles its crest in affront. "Well. There were Thrambleberries involved and... and... how was _I_ to know you were going to...!"

The creature snaps its jaws closed and glances around, ensuring that no one is within hearing distance before lowering its head and hissing, "You never mentioned you and the Hatter figured out how to Stop Time!"

Alice blinks. "I... What?"

"You drank jabberwocky blood and _the Hatter_ drank jabberwocky blood... You didn't think that just faded away, did you?"

When Alice doesn't answer, Maevyn grumbles, "I shouldn't even be explaining this to you..." It sighs with resignation. "The two of you, _together_, can Stop Time with your will."

"Because we drank jabberwocky blood years ago?"

"Yes."

"... I see." Really, what else is there to say to that?

"Hm... good. And while we're on the topic of seeing things: I could see it _all_, you know," the jabberwocky informs her sadly. "The knife, the blood... Being this close to the Time Disturbance, it would have been hard not to! I couldn't move, but I could _See._ Watch." Maevyn shudders. "It was horrible! And what's worse: you're just going to let the princess believe she nearly killed you?"

"No!" Alice croaks as softly as she can. "Of course not!"

Maevyn seems slightly appeased. "Well, that's one thing, then."

"Is there more?"

The jabberwocky nods. "You should know that _all_ those present today who have been touched by the blood of a jabberwocky could see the Truth."

Alice frowns. "But none of the other jabberwockies are here..."

"No, they aren't, so they didn't See. If they were far enough away, I doubt they Felt Time stop, either. But there is one more _here_ who did See." The dragon informs her, "There's one other way to be Touched besides by drinking the blood. If you _share_ blood with a drinker..."

Alice's frown deepens, still not understanding.

"Tamial," Maevyn finally informs her bluntly. "Tamial has been Touched and his eyes newly Opened, although how _that _happened, I have no idea..."

Alice thinks of unathorized looking glass travel and a trip to the past and thinks she make a pretty good guess on that.

The jabberwocky obligingly continues, "He shared your blood while he was in _your_ womb, Alice. Once a Drinker of the Blood, always the Blood remains. As such Tamial is not just _your_ child, but a child of the Masters of Time... and he Saw it all."

_Tamial saw me ask his father to slit my throat? No... NO!_ And yet... what if he _had_ seen that?

_Dear Fates...!_

Alice feels her throat work and then throb in protest as she tries to push back the despair and gather her words. The wound aches and she wonders if it'll start bleeding again and she ought to care about that, but, brangergain i'tall, this is _Important!_

"Tarrant," she begs. "Tell Tarrant."

"I already have," the jabberwocky replies, looking up and in a direction that Alice cannot direct her attention toward without moving her entire body. "He's speaking with your son now."

Alice blinks up at the young jabberwocky for a long moment as its dawn-colored gaze stares back. "Maevyn...?"

"Yes, Alice?"

"Who else knows? Did you tell the queen? Is that why she gave us a moment?"

The jabberwocky shakes its head. "I will tell Krystoval, or course, but no one else will know. Nor should they. This is a very powerful – a very _dangerous –_ ability you insist on exercising with your mate."

"So I can... rely on you – and Krystoval – to ensure... we never abuse it?"

"Yes, of course, Alice. Of course."

"Thank you," Alice sighs out, feeling utterly drained. "Now, why _did_ everyone give us a minute alone if they _don_'_t _know...?"

"Ah. That would be because I'm your bodyguard for the trip back."

"Bodyguard?"

"You've got to admit, you need one," the creature informs her. "You don't take very good care of yourself, Alice."

"Blast it. You've been talking to Chessur."

"I have not." Again, the multicolored crest goes up with the jabberwocky's indignation. "I'll have you know _he_ has been talking to _me _about _you._ Non-stop since he finished briefing the queen the day before yesterday. So. I'm quite the expert on your self-destructive tendencies."

"A perfect bodyguard," Alice allows.

"Especially since my memory is utterly _perfect._"

Alice sighs... again.

"Now, can you stand on your own or do you need a claw to assist you?"

"A bit more than a claw," she admits.

"All right. I'll collect Fenruffle." The jabberwocky pauses. "I wouldn't be surprised if he has Questions for you about that performance. Eyes of a hawk, gryphons have."

"Blast," Alice swears... again. Closing her eyes is the only escape possible at this point and she indulges in it. Unfortunately, the next time she opens them, it is obvious that she had not _escaped_ but _succumbed_ to the blackness behind her eyelids.

Her eyes rove around the pale room: Mamoreal. Somehow she had slept the entire return journey away.

"Tarrant?" she rasps. Her lips and mouth dry, perhaps due to the line of fire circling her throat, burning away at her skin.

"No, it's me." And then the face of her apprentice enters her field of vision. Tarra still looks too pale even though the dark blood has been scrubbed from her face and her hair has been restored to its natural color. Tension pinches her expression and narrows her eyes.

Yes, Tarra is very Angry with her.

Despite that, she offers Alice a cup of water.

"Uncle Hatter and Tam went back through the looking glass. To say their good-byes to your family."

"Ah." Yes, Margaret had probably flown into a Panic when she'd realized Tam was missing from his bed. But that doesn't explain why _Tarra_ – of all people – has been allowed to sit at Alice's bedside and watch over her. "The queen is...?"

"Already beginning the negotiations she promised."

"Then shouldn't you be there as well? It's one of the duties of the Queen's Champion to—"

"I'm not the Queen's Champion," Tarra snaps.

Alice watches the emotions chase each other across the young woman's face. "You could be," Alice tells her, after a long moment.

"Could I?" Tarra replies on a sniffle. "Tell me something – _honestly_," she continues and Alice winces at the bitterness of her tone. "Does it ever get any easier?"

"Fighting?"

"Killing."

"No. No, it never does. Not even if you desire the death of your combatant with all your heart. It is absolutely wretched every single time."

"Why didn't you ever tell me that?"

Alice feels her brows lift with incredulity. "I did."

And because Tarra knows Alice is right – she _had _been warned again and again and again about the price this position would exact from her soul – they are left in undulating silence.

"Where are we?" Alice asks suddenly.

"At Mamoreal," Tarra replies, giving her an irritated look.

Alice exerts all her self-control and manages to _not _roll her eyes. "I meant, _where _in the castle are we?"

"Oh. First floor."

"Good. Help me up."

"What? No! I already got a ten-minute lecture from Uncle Hatter about—_What-do-you-think-you_'_re-doing?_"

Alice smirks as Tarra ducks under her arm. Mission accomplished.

"Damn it," the girl swears, no doubt realizing how skillfully she'd been manipulated. Again.

"You have every right to be angry with me," Alice tells her. "Every right. I used you. I used your training to manipulate you into doing exactly what I wanted you to do on that battlefield and I used your sword to make you think you'd slain me. That is what a Champion _must _do, Tarra. And now I will show you _why._"

"Where are we going?" Tarra asks in a tone that is equal parts exasperation and apprehension.

Alice doesn't answer. She steers her apprentice out the door and down the hall, careful not to turn her head and disturb the bandages around her throat. She knows she must look a fright and the thought reminds her of Tam... of what he had seen... of what he had – undoubtedly – not been able to understand.

_I_'_m so sorry..._ she Sends along the heart line and the replying warmth that is both his depthless love and righteous anger makes her eyes sting.

Yes, he will have plenty of things to say about this, that, _everything_... later.

Step by step, they navigate the halls until Alice stops Tarra in front of a pair of grand and ornately detailed white doors.

"The throne room?" Tarra checks, not bothering to use the _correct _name for the room: the Royal Reception Hall for Visitors. It _is _a rather long name, after all...

"Yes. The throne room. Open the door."

Tarra does. The room echoes with their footsteps – Tarra's boots and Alice's borrowed slippers (perhaps whoever had arranged her room had expected her to need them, had known it would be impossible to stop her from wandering around the castle) – as they approach the centrally displayed chair upon the dais.

"Take a look," Alice invites her would-be successor.

"At... the throne?"

"Yes. Look at it. Really look at it. Because this," Alice continues, gesturing, "is what a Champion fights for and will die for."

Tarra, however, does _not _look at the throne. She turns her head and frowns at Alice. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking," Alice struggles to explain, "about fighting for an _Idea_. A Champion must fight for _more _that just a sovereign, a friend, a family member. A Champion fights for _all _of Underland, for the betterment of its citizens. Why do you think I've always taught you to confront the enemy, embrace them, call them out and _count_ them? It's a Champion's job to keep Underland safe and whole and united! That isn't possible if one enemy is defeated but their conspirators remain!"

Tarra turns her head toward the throne, finally, when Alice gestures insistently once more.

"What result works for the betterment of all most effectively, Tarra? Do we meet on the battlefield or allow shadowy rumors to eat away at our country? Do I defeat you and allow dissatisfaction to grow and fester among those who have lost the fight? Do you defeat me and allow these rebels to undermine the peace that it is the queen's responsibility to uphold?"

"You died... you nearly died," Tarra replies softly.

"No, Tarra, I showed them Death. I showed them the dark path they were so eager to take."

"But... what if some of them had... liked it?"

"That is a gamble I chose to take."

"I... I..."

"Tarra, the truth is: I am expendable," Alice insists bluntly, honestly. "One day, I will die. Likely in the service of the queen and because either I am too weak to perform my duties properly or, hopefully, because my death benefits Underland. _Think_ about this, Tarra! Is this the life you want for yourself? Do you think this is the life your mother and father want for you? To die... for a _chair?_"

"I... You... You fight for..."

"That chair, Tarra. I fight for the person who sits in it. The job that comes with this chair. Peace. Prosperity. The future. That's what this chair represents. That's what I fight for. And perhaps that _sounds_ noble, but you already know that the way I fight is not. I will use whatever I must, _whomever_ I must... to win."

And she has. She has even used Tarrant time and time again. She had used him just before facing Jaspien and his forces, had relied on him to allow her to showcase her false weaknesses, had relied on his silence. And again, she had used him to pave her way in Upland, to strengthen her position in that inflexible patriarchal society of London. And today she had used him. She had used his hand and his knife to make Tarra believe she had cut her own mentor's throat.

There is no denying the fact that this life has made Alice ruthless in ways she had never, _ever_ even thought would be possible.

But it _is_ possible... because here she stands.

And yet, perhaps, being ruthless is not – necessarily – a bad thing. Yes, anything is possible, if only she _believes it is!_

_I am not evil,_ she decides, regarding the throne in silence with her student, _but I am ruthless._

And she accepts that.

Just as Tarrant has _always_ accepted that.

Perhaps, once day, Tam will understand – according to the Oraculum he will, at the very least, forgive her – but for now... Tarrant's understanding and her own... that is enough.

"This throne..." Tarra whispers, the tone of her voice changing, alerting Alice to a very Significant Thought occurring in the young woman's mind.

"Yes?"

"It... Do you see how it... _breathes?_"

Alice nearly turns her head in Tarra's direction at that. Nearly undoes all of the progress the stitches and Pain Paste have made. Nearly... but doesn't. "Breathes?" Alice confirms.

"Well... yes. Do you see how the grain shimmers? Like... like..."

"Like currents in the Crimson Sea?" she ventures, not seeing anything dynamic in the throne at all.

"Yes! Precisely!" Tarra enthuses, leaning closer to the dais. "And the light around it... do you feel it?" She reaches out a hand, an perfectly unscarred hand, toward the throne, palm facing the object of her attention. "Here. Hold up your hand. Can you feel it?"

Reluctantly, Alice does... and feels nothing at all. But... she thinks she knows why. Alice smiles. "_You_ feel it. _You _see it."

"You don't?"

"No," Alice replies softly, nearly shaking her head. "I don't have the Vision for furniture making. The Talent."

"The...? What?"

"Tarra," Alice muses. "Perhaps your time with Master Setteeson... awakened a natural inclination for the craft? Perhaps you have an... Instinct for this?"

"I... do?"

Alice almost laughs at her befuddled expression. "I think you just might."

"But... what does that mean?"

"It means, if you choose _not _to be a Champion... you do not _have _to be a princess." And the thought that Tarra is not _bound _to Championhood as Alice is brings with it such _relief_ that she feels as if she is burning up from the inside out. Fear for Tarra, doubt that she and Mirana had done the Right Thing in allowing her to take Alice's place temporarily... All of it goes up in smoke... and drifts away.

"You don't have to be a princess," Alice repeats. "You could be something Different."

"Like Ama and haberdashery?"

"No, like Tarra and carpentry."

"Into-home wares."

"Pardon me. Into-home wares." Alice grins.

Tarra frowns. "But... I've wanted to be a Champion since... since as far back as I can remember!"

"Don't let the past limit your future," Alice replies. "Perhaps you were meant to be a Champion... so that it might lead you to furniture making."

"... Oh..."

"Just think about it."

Tarra nods. Thinks.

For several long moment, Alice lets her. Eventually, however, Alice clears her throat and announces, "And now, if you don't mind, I think I'd like to get back in bed before I'm caught out of it."

Tarra comes back to the present with a blink, a smirk, and a laugh. "Hah hah! Not so tough now, are you?"

"I'd like to see how brave _you_ are in the face of a very _Mad_ Hatter!"

Tarra snickers. "Oh. Right. Good point. I guess you'd have to be good at self preservation to still be a Champion after... how long has it been? Fifty-some-odd years?"

"Twenty-two. Still having trouble with Maths?"

"Hah. Don't tell Sir Fenruffle and I won't tell Uncle Hatter you were out of bed."

"It's a deal, madam."

* * *

Notes:

1. Is Tarra really her true self at Mamoreal? Yes. She was doing what Alice taught her to do by ingratiating herself with the "enemy". That included hamming up the bit about being "controlled by the Soul Bond." The Soul Bond ensures that since Mirana and Dale are not evil or cruel or vicious, none of their children will be, either. That's all. Yes, it's still controversial as it _does_ impinge on liberty, but in a good way, I think. Not all limits and restrictions are Bad.

2. So, Alice and Tarrant can stop Time? Yes, but only by working together. They cannot stop Time separately.

* * *

[End of Chapter 13: Scene 1]


	159. Book 4, Unbreakable Promises, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Thirteen: Unbreakable Promises  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Tarrant steps into the room, glances down at the floor beside Alice's bed and sighs.

"Let us just dispense with the necessary facts and acknowledge that, yes, you _did _somehow manage to convince Tarra – or someone equally gullible – to let you out of bed and go galumphing around the castle."

"There was no galumphing," Alice asserts on a rasp. She doesn't bother to deny that she'd... wandered. The spike of guilty alarm that had made her heart leap had confessed her crime.

"Your slippers have been moved," he says, offering up the evidence.

She doesn't refute him. "Tell me how the trip went."

He does.

Alice listens to a tale of mirror-aided time travel, a sword fight, a damsel in distress, and a...

"Lord Manchester... You honestly believe that Lord Manchester could have murdered his own son?"

"Tam believes it."

Alice swallows as she considers that additional burden on her son's already weighted mind. "What did you tell him?"

"I told him about monsters and men and mothers who fight for the sake Underland." Tarrant glances away. "I think I managed to get all the words in the correct order..."

Alice opens her hand, reaches for him. "What does Hamish think of Lord Manchester's...?" She cannot say it. Despite having known Lowell, she cannot say the words "kill" and "son" in the same sentence. "How is Winslow?"

He tells her. "Winslow is... distressed, of course. Hamish mentioned that he'd quite recently grown very close with his grandfather."

Alice closes her eyes and curses the past. _This _is why the past must stay where it is. _Nothing_ good ever comes of revisiting it! "How are Hamish and Margaret... managing that?"

"Hamish – with Winslow's assistance – is in the process of investigating, although, should he find a witness willing to speak out against Lord Manchester or should he manage to locate the man whom Manchester had hired to... do the deed, he is not optimistic that anything will come of it."

"Winslow won't have to apprentice with Manchester Manufacturing, certainly!" Alice protests.

At last, Tarrant sinks down onto the edge of the bed. He looks tired. Perhaps fighting his natural inclination to give in to her had taken too much out of him when he is already at the edge of his limits. "Yes. Perhaps that will be the one bright point in all of this. Hamish mentioned something called blackmail, which sounds rather difficult to read, in all honesty, but he seems quite confident that it will be effective in allowing Winslow a choice in his future." He looks down at Alice's hand (and the heart line climbing up the back of it) where it rests on top of the quilt. "Who am I to question such certainty?"

She lets his assumption about blackmail pass. Perhaps later she will explain that while the intent of the correspondence is dark, the message is often written with the Light of Truth, making it very legible, indeed.

He reaches out and plays with the ends of her fingers. She plays back, tapping his fingertips with brief caresses. "Tam, you'll be happy to hear, does not seem to have suffered from his overly sensible decision to confide his misadventures in Margaret and Hamish. Winslow has forgiven him."

"We should reward him for that," Alice remarks, thinking of their son's selfless bravery. "It was uncommonly mature of him."

"Yes. I already have. At least in part. What is more worrisome," he continues before Alice can ask what Tam's reward had been, "is that he is very conflicted over what he... that is, what he saw at the battlefield."

"Is that why he didn't come with you to see me?"

She had received visits from nearly everyone thus far today:

Tarra had been the first, of course. And, Alice dares to hope that her apprentice is no longer quite so angry with her.

Mally had come next, blustering and demanding answers: "There I was, hidden away in the hood of that damn cloak, waiting for Tarra to talk us outta trouble an' then she went an' talked us _inteh _it! _That_'_s_ what you taught her to do?"

"Mally, a Champion has to think about the ramifications of—"

"Rami... _Rami...!_ I'll ram _you_ if you ever, _ever,_ _EVER—!_" The dormouse had been too incensed to continue for a moment. Then she had taken a deep breath and, with a swish of her tail, had turned away and marched for the door. "Don't let me catch you using princesses to cut your throat, again! If anyone's got the right to slice you open, that'd be _me!_"

She'd even managed to slam the door rather soundly behind her.

Thackery had arrived shortly, declaring, "Tea!" He'd shoved the tea tray onto the bedside table and had thrown a spinach puff at her. "Nae time teh chat! A mahn's berries need lookin' afteh!"

"Feather-brained and pompous, hm?" Sir Fenruffle had rumbled by way of greeting, causing Alice to wince and flounder for words.

But the gryphon hadn't come for an apology, apparently. He had, instead, continued, "Very fortunate the Hatter was so nearby and had sewing thread and a needle on hand. Very fortunate considering how _fast_ Uplander blood is. In fact, I don't recall ever seeing the blade touch your throat..."

"You must have blinked," Alice had told him as his beady, golden eyes had _glared_ down on her, not blinking once.

Leif had bothered her next: "First let me just say, damn you Alice for teaching Tarra how to be so blasted stubborn!"

There had been a bit of shouting and bit of blaming and then, with his well of frustration dry – for the moment – he'd moved on to making jokes at her expense.

"Got quite the collection of scars, don't you?"

"Jealous?"

"Oh, most definitely. It must take real _talent_ to flail about in battle, cutting your hand on your opponent's blade _by accident._" He shakes his head, his mane rippling.

"It was a classic Futterwhacken move, not _flailing_," Alice argues and does not tell him that the cut on her palm had been necessary in transferring blood onto Tarra's sword. And then, when Alice had grabbed her slit throat with her right hand, the additional blood from the cut in her hand had made Alice's injury seem even more gruesome. It had all been planned. Of course, she will never tell him that.

And now, _finally_, the one person she most desperately wants to see and speak to and _be with_ is here... But things are not all right. She cannot bluff or lie or tease her way out of this painful confrontation.

Tarrant does not meet her eyes as he says, "I have always hated what this position, as Queen's Champion, demands of you. Tam is beginning to hate it as well."

"I'll speak to him later today," she blithely assures him, eager for her punishments of the day to end and the rewards to make an appearance.

"And what will you say to heal him?"

_That _makes her pause. Alice knows what her husband wants to hear: he wants her to promise to quit, to announce that Tarra will take her place beside the queen. But Alice's oath to Mirana is the one promise she _must_ keep. It had been her first Underlandian promise. Even before she had sworn to Tarrant that she would return one day, she had taken up the Vorpal Sword, had slain. Those sorts of promises cannot be Undone.

She knows what it will take to heal Tam, to heal Tarrant, but she is not capable of offering either of them what they need.

"I'll tell him that we'll be going back to Iplam soon. The queen will not need her Champion again for a long time."

He frowns – fiercely – and pulls his hand away. Her fingers feel cold without the contact.

"Tarrant..." she begins, knowing there is so Much they still need to discuss. The emotions _engulfing_ his heart have not abated in the slightest despite the queen's estimate that she will make a full recovery. She desperately wants to know why he still feels so... _conflicted_. The danger is past. Once _again_, they have triumphed... _together._

So why does he seem so... defeated?

"The Barterment will begin the day after tomorrow," Tarrant says softly, stubbornly, ignoring the presence of the lingering horror between them – horror at what Alice had asked of him, horror at what he had done to her at her behest, horror at what Tam had seen.

Alice would have nodded if not for the wrappings around her throat. "And I fully intend to be there for that."

"You should rest." Not so very long ago, she would have expected him to insist on that point. But now his tone wavers, uncertain. She focuses on the heart line, but the message Tarrant's heart is currently sending her only makes her more confused: there is a resonance of sorrow, a twinge of _panic_-frustration-_**fear**_, and a distance that feels like nostalgia. If only that blasted knife wound hadn't damaged it, the message might have been clearer! More easily discernible!

"I intend to help look after our Hightoppians," she replies. "I'll be there, Tarrant."

Surprisingly, he does not argue. Tarrant collects her hand in both of his and raises it to his cheek. She obligingly fits her palm to the curve of his face and allows the touch to evoke her love for him. She Sends it.

He chokes.

"Tarrant?"

"I do not understand," he lisps very softly. "How ye can luv me sae much... yet gi' yer life teh th' queen."

In all honestly, Alice is not sure she understands it, either. But she thinks it might have something to do with...

"_You_ are Underland... to me," she murmurs. "I cannot let anything hurt your home, _our_ home. _You._ I cannot let anyone hurt you. And if a revolution were to happen... If those children had managed to rise up against the queen... Don't tell me you wouldn't be out there, on the front lines again, with your sword, fighting for the White Queen. Don't tell me it wouldn't destroy you to hurt, maim, kill those sons and daughters of your people."

She's not sure if that makes any sense at all, but it must have made sense to him. His smile is sad when it tugs at his lips. "You have always saved me, Alice," he muses. "And, perhaps wrongfully, I have always hoped you would."

"We'll save each other," she insists, guiding his face toward hers.

He breathes out a long, warm sighing breath as her right hand tangles in his hair. And then his lips brush over hers softly, once... twice. On the third pass, she opens to him, invites him in although no invitation should be necessary. They have been lovers for nearly two decades; her body is his, as much as his is hers.

She hears his boots hit the floor, which is good – they'll keep the bedroom slippers company now that her feet are not occupying them – and then he settles down on the bed beside her. He lies on top of the quilt, fully clothed, but Alice is in no condition to insist on fewer layers between them. He gently inserts an arm beneath her neck and wraps the other around her waist.

He kisses her even when his breath hitches and warm tears fall on her cheeks from his eyes. She does not understand precisely why he cries – perhaps he cries for Tam's lost innocence or Alice's never-ending obligations to Underland or his own complacency in allowing her to choose that path – but she does not need to understand it. She Feels it in her heart. She holds onto him, kisses him, and promises him:

"I will never let you go."

He hides his face in her hair at that declaration. He does not refuse her vow and the silence of the room – Underland itself – witnesses it... and accepts it.

* * *

Notes:

So, why is Tarrant so upset? If you think it's a little strange that he seems to be so miserable and grieving for... something, well. We'll find out the reason for that... eventually. It's all part of The Big OPK Plan. (^_~)

* * *

[End of Chapter 13]


	160. Book 4, Renegotiating the Future, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Fourteen: Renegotiating the Future  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

"How goes the negotiations?" Alice inquires later that evening and Mirana forces a brave smile.

"Absolutely nowhere," she admits in a falsely cheerful tone as she examines first Alice's throat and then the dinner tray Alice had managed to demolish with a little assistance from Tarrant and a cooperative spoon.

"But with Irondirk as intermediary...?"

"Alice, they want me to reinstate the profession of mercenary. You know why I can't do that."

"Yes. I know." Under no circumstances can another power-hungry conspirator be allowed to rise up against the White Queen. "But there must be a compromise all can live with."

"I have not thought of it yet. Have you, Alice?"

"When I do, you will know it."

Mirana bids her a good night. Alice wishes her luck with the negotiations which will resume in the morning. After the door closes, Alice listens to the soft, susurrus sounds of life passing through and around Mamoreal. She listens and thinks... and is still thinking when Tarrant returns from bathing in the bathroom across the hall.

"Are you ready to speak to Tam?" he asks, still subdued despite the rest they'd taken together that afternoon.

"Is he ready to speak to me?"

Tarrant reaches for his pocket watch pocket but drops his hand, fingers twitching, before retrieving it. Perhaps it is not working today. Again. She sighs. Yes, Time does have quite the temper when it comes to her husband. And now her son as well.

"Perhaps the more important question we should be concerning ourselves with regards the two of you finding a middle ground at the same time," he replies.

"Middle ground, yes, I see what you mean," she comments, frowning as the idea tickles her mind. "Middle ground is very useful... in many..." Alice trails off as the idea does more than tickle now. It whirls, races, takes flight!

"Alice?"

"Where is Jaspien?" she asks suddenly.

Tarrant scowls. "In his rooms, I should hope!"

Where she absolutely cannot visit him. Blast it all! "Well, he needs to be let out of them." She reaches for the pull cord beside her bed to call a frog footman. Tarrant stops her. He leaps forward and snatches the pull cord away with one hand while grasping her wrist with the other.

"Wha' d'ye think ye're doin'?" he demands.

"Jaspien is here for the Barterment," she replies.

"The day after tomorrow," Tarrant confirms. "You will no doubt see him then."

"Tonight," she insists.

His mouth compresses into a thin line. "Be this ano'her one o' yer duties teh Underland tha' keeps ye from yer family?"

She winces and replies, "Yes. I'm afraid it is."

He glares at her for a long moment. "I d'nae ken _why_ ye don' jus' take yer crown an' b' done wi' it."

"My crown?"

"Aye. Ye fergot tha', tae, o' course." With a huff, he sits down on the edge of the bed again, as he had earlier. "When ye were a wee lass, ye found yer way te Underland on twine occasions. On th' second, ye were made a queen."

"I... was?" She frowns. This seems familiar, oddly enough, but the recollection is indistinct, wispy, and slithers away before she can grasp it.

"Aye."

"But then... how did I become a Champion?"

"'Tis nae rule tha' I know of tha't'll stop anyone from becomin' a Champion," he answers. "Bu' th' queen woul' know more. An'..." he muses with a thoughtful look in her direction, "I wonder if yer unclaimed crown woul' explain why ye... do th' things ye feel ye must... fer Underland."

Alice blinks at him for a long moment, her mind wandering through myths and legends, through vague memories of an Underland that she had dubbed Wonderland, through Uplandish pagan stories... pagan rites...

Somewhere, had she once read that pagan kings and queens – in times of strife and stress – had been called upon to bleed for their people, to give their lives to end their citizens' torment? She shivers.

Yes, this is indeed something to take into Consideration.

But for right now...

Tarrant, no doubt Feeling her determination, sighs. "All right, Alice," he murmurs, reaching for and pulling the cord. "Let's get on with it and save Underland."

"Thank you," she says softly.

He glances at her, his eyes very green and even now turning bluer and bluer with the emotions she can feel from him along her heart line. "I wouldn't know what to do with you if you changed _now_, Raven," he confesses with a smile.

And when Algernon opens the door, he interrupts a very ardent kiss. The poor fellow looks a bit green around the gills at the sight and Alice hurriedly conveys her request so that the fish butler can make his escape.

Which he does. Gratefully.

* * *

Notes:

The visit to Underland that Tarrant refers to (during which Alice was crowned a queen) took place in Lewis Carroll's second book _Through the Looking Glass._

* * *

[End of Chapter 14: Scene 1]


	161. Book 4, Renegotiating the Future, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Fourteen: Renegotiating the Future  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

Tarrant watches his wife – the holder of his heart and the keeper of his madness – approach the very man who had once sought to use her to gain control of the White Realm. It rankles that, even now, he cannot make that drab, gray man feel the same pain and panic and give-me-back-_my-Alice-you-worthless-scut-of-a-rath!_ that Tarrant had endured. Time has not faded his memories or his thirst for vengeance. Perhaps, one day, he will have the latter.

But, then again...

Tarrant glances at the bandage still wrapped around his wife's neck...

Then again, perhaps not. Perhaps there will not be any vengeance. Or, perhaps there will... In any case, he doubts he'll be able to enjoy it.

"The guards informed me that the Causwick stock had been tampered with," the man states factually, his bland voice echoing in the room that is empty of visitors with the exception of the three of them and two members of the White Guard, even though Alice had said not a word.

"Have you taken inventory?"

"Yes. Everything is here."

"Good," Alice replies.

"In your opinion, _is _it?" the man dares to question.

Tarrant's hands fist but he does not interrupt. He stands by the door to the castle in the main hall where samples of goods – both finished and unworked – are displayed from all over Underland. Very shortly, each representative will begin bartering with their constituents' needs in mind. And he will be very happy to have Alice at his side for that. Their Hightoppians are relying on them.

Alice's response to Jaspien's blunt question draws his attention away from the future and back to the present. "While I hold no fondness for you, sir," she answers just as rudely, "I hold no ill will toward the people under your protection."

Jaspien has nothing to say to that and, after a moment, Alice continues, "What will you trade for?"

"Wool, dried vegetables, wheat..."

"All things you could grow yourself," she interrupts.

"Not in a swamp, Champion Alice."

"So change the swamp into something that will grow vegetables and raise wool sheep."

The solution sounds so simple Tarrant is equally as surprised by Alice's flippant tone as Jaspien appears to be.

"And with what resources would earth works of that sort be possible?" the man sneers. Alice has obviously struck a sore spot.

"Not yours, of course. The White Queen would have the resources for that. You would, naturally, have to... make certain compromises in order to gain self-sufficiency for Causwick Callion."

"Compromises of what sort?" the man asks, his tone thoughtful.

Alice regards the leather hides of the swamp cattle and remarks off-handedly, "Violence is not outlawed on your lands, is it?"

"No... Although it is no longer encouraged."

"Yes, peace is best, is it not? And yet, it is in our nature to compete, to battle. That is the trouble with the White Realm. There is no... venue for these _natural_ impulses to be... exercised."

"Speak plainly, Champion Alice. I am too weary to unpuzzle riddles."

"The queen needs a place where those who wish to pursue the arts of war may do so. Causwick Callion is a place where that would be possible."

"Are you suggesting I simply _give_ the White Queen my lands?"

"No. Of course not. How would that benefit your people?"

"It would not."

No, Tarrant muses, the people of the Callion had journeyed there to _escape_ the high standards of moral behavior set by the queen. They would not wish to become citizens of the White Realm.

"Precisely," Alice agrees. "I'm sure... were you to give the issue the thought it requires, you could draft a proposal that would be... _mutually_ beneficial." Alice looks up at him and says, "An annual festival of war games would require campgrounds, a stadium, fields... _fields,_ sir, that I'm sure you could find a use for when the festival is _not_ being held."

Jaspien regards her with his cold, gray eyes for a very long moment. Finally, he says, "Yes, I see. Perhaps the best time for such a festival would be in late autumn, to allow the participants to train during the warm summer months..."

Warm summer months... in other words, the growing season. Tarrant's brows twitch as he considers Alice's words. Yes, Causwick could use the cleared and drained swampland to grow their own foodstuffs and then the festival would be held following the harvest...

Alice nods. "The festival participants would be guests on _your _land, sir. I'm sure they would bring... gifts in exchange for your hospitality..."

"I would not ask for much..."

"But they would not be a burden. They would not deplete your food stores..."

"Hm," the man agrees. "Yes. A proposal. Perhaps sooner rather than later."

"I'm sure the queen would like to hear it as soon as possible. Projects of this sort require a great deal of preparation."

"Then, if you will excuse me, I will draft your suggestions."

Alice puts out a hand to stop him. She clarifies, "I am _sure_ the queen would appreciate _your_ assistance with resolving the current difficulties the White Realm is facing."

And – amazingly enough – the unimaginative man Understands: he does not require Alice's endorsement for the queen to hear him; he should take this opportunity to begin to mend the rift between the White Realm and Causwick; it would work in his favor to present these ideas as his own. He replies slowly, "That is... good to hear. Good evening... and thank you, Champion Alice."

"Do not thank me; I've done nothing. This meeting never happened. Good evening, Prince Jaspien."

Tarrant watches as a prideful gleam enters the man's eyes at the sound of his old title. No, he is not a prince any longer – not in name – but he _could _be a prince once again: a Prince In Practice.

Alice gestures to the guards and asks them to take the man back to his rooms. "Make sure he has parchment, ink and pens. And should he wish for a message to be delivered to the queen, allow it."

"Yes, Mistress Alice."

"Mistress Alice..." Tarrant muses, his chest tightening with amazement and love and... "You make me unbearably be-pride-ish, lass," he informs her.

"So, you think Mirana will accept?" she queries as he welcomes her back into his arms.

"I think... she has wanted to do something to help the people of the Callion for a considerable amount of time," he ventures. "And I think these rebels and _you_, my Alice, have given her the perfect excuse to offer assistance to those who need it without going back on Jaspien's punishment."

"Which suits _you_, I see."

He shakes his head. "I'll sooner forget than forgive... and while I may not have the memory of a jabberwocky, I do _not_ discard memories willy-nilly."

"Yes, I know."

He giggles and a bright, happy smile blossoms on Alice's face at the sound of it. He sighs with delight; it is good to see her smile again, just as it is good to laugh again. Despite that, he has not forgotten the things that Distress him. He pushes them aside for a moment. He should not waste Alice Moments, after all. Later, he will allow himself to Remember. Later, he will grieve, rage, sob. Later.

"Everything will be all right," Alice informs him. "And now I'm really ready to tell Tam that."

"Then let's locate him." Yes, Tarrant would like to have his family back. He would like his wife and son to resolve their guilt and anger, respectively. He would like to have both of them with him at the Barterment. He would like to have both of them with him for as long as the Fates allow.

They find their son sitting on the terrace, leaning against one of the massive horse head balustrades, contemplating the pitch below. Alice gives Tarrant's hand a squeeze before she steps outside alone and approaches their son.

_Their __**son.**_

__  
Who suddenly looks as if he has grown into his thirteen years. And more.

"That's your Fa's pocket watch," Alice observes softly, seating herself on the stone railing and Tarrant blinks, noticing the object his son is turning over and over in his hands.

Tamial nods. "He gave it to me. He said I need it more than he does."

Tarrant's heart nearly throbs with Loss at that. He holds it back, however. He does not want Alice to think the comment is overly Significant. Yes, Tamial needs the watch more than Tarrant does. He had already consulted it... for the last time.

His son continues, "He said I should use it to find the Right Time for Things."

"Are you having any success with it?"

"Sure. Like now for instance."

"What time is it now?"

He sighs, squints in thought, and looks at the face of the watch. "It's time for us to talk," he replies.

"You can... see that?"

"I haven't figured out how to tell him, but I think Fa already knows: I want to Master Time."

"Of course he knows. He's your Fa. And he's very proud of you."

"But he didn't want me to see... _You_ didn't want me to see..."

"No, we didn't. Of course we didn't. Battle and death is so ugly, so horrible, Tam. Of course we want to protect you from those things."

"Well, you didn't."

"No. You outsmarted us. Congratulations, darling." The words are not sarcastic, but sad. So very sad...

"It... it doesn't feel like..." Tam replies on a choked whisper. "I don't feel proud of it."

"That's good. I don't feel proud of it, either. Neither does your Fa. What we did on the battlefield... it was..."

"Necessary, I know. Fa explained."

"And how did he do that?"

"He told me the people who wanted Aunt Mirana to give up her crown would start a war. He told me you had to show them how... bad war is. How bad Death is. And you did. You showed them, Mam." Tam looks up at her. "There won't be a war now, will there?"

"No, there won't. Your Fa and I... we convinced them not to fight."

"And now Aunt Mirana is talking to them?"

"Negotiating, yes. We will find a solution."

"So... you won't have to fight again? Be a Champion?"

Tarrant Feels his wife's internal battle. He shares it. Alice isn't sure if she should offer their son the truth or comfort. After a long moment, he feels her resignation and listens from the other side of the threshold as she says, "I want to tell you that I will never have to pick up a sword again. I wish I _could_ quit, Tam. But this is who I am. Just as you are who _you_ are... just as you can move through Time when you step into a looking glass, just as you can read your Fa's watch whenever you want and _not _whenever Time lets you. It never worked very well for him, you know. Not after he..."

"... killed Time. I know, Mam. I know."

"Yes, you do."

And Tarrant is tempted to kill the bastard again. But no. No. He mustn't.

"You planned everything," he accuses her. "I should have known when Fa gave me that new jacket. It hadn't even been washed yet."

"I'm sorry, Tamial," Alice says. "I should have told you why we needed you to go to London. Do you forgive me?"

Tamial considers that. "Are you going to do it again? Send me away to keep me safe?"

"We might," she admits with brutal honesty. "Will you go if we ask you to?"

He huffs out a teary laugh. "I might." He turns his attention back to the watch in his hands. "But I... I might not have ever seen you again if... if I hadn't..."

She does not tell him everything has turned out all right. She does not repeat Tarrant's lecture on duty and consequences and monsters and such. She says, "I know."

"I could ask the watch. It would tell me how long... how much..."

"How much time we have?" Alice supplies.

Tam nods. "But Fa said not to. He said I would start counting down to death instead of living for the future."

"I'm sure I've said this before, but your Fa is—"

"—a very saganistute man. I know, Mam."

"Yes. Yes, you do." The moment stretches, settles, and then Alice reaches out and tweaks Tam's trouser cuff. "Are you hungry?"

"A little," he admits.

"I bet your Fa's got the kettle on. And Thackery made spinach puffs today. There might be some left."

Tam's stomach gurgles. He and his Mam share knowing grins. And just as she reaches out to help him up, Tarrant steps back into the shadows and hurries for the castle kitchens. His wife and his son have just reminded him of of his priorities. He has some tea to put on and puffs to hunt up and... oh, yes, he never _did_ get around to asking for that jar of Batten jam, did he?

Tarrant smiles as life orders itself into simple, familiar tasks again. These he can handle. These are a pleasure to perform. These are the sweet moments in life that must be enjoyed. Cherished. Treasured.

He resolves to do just that.

* * *

[End of Chapter 14: Scene 2]


	162. Book 4, Renegotiating the Future, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Fourteen: Renegotiating the Future  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

"Champion Tarranya."

Tarra turns away from the awakening garden, away from the sun-kissed edge of the Witzend horizon, and looks over her shoulder at the approaching lion man. Smiles. Says: "Not a Champion. Not anymore."

Leif's brows arch. "Quitting so easily?" It would have been a taunt, had he not clearly intended for it to be a Dare.

Tarra, bless her beautiful soul, does not rise to it. "No. Exploring other options. I do have talents, you know. In other things besides whipping your tail on the pitch."

"Hah!" Leif barks, stepping up next to her to take in the view on the other side of the garden gate. "I should very much like to see you try."

"Oh, you'll get your chance," she promises. "Maybe tomorrow. Before I leave."

"... Leave?"

She nods. "Back to Crimson Harbor. I guess Master Setteeson needs an apprentice after all." She shrugs. "Who knew I'd have the Instinct for carpentry?"

"Into-home wares," he softly corrects her.

She chuckles. "Thanks. Into-home wares." For a long moment, the silence that is carried on the early morning breeze is melancholy, aching.

"You never had to become a Champion for me, Tarrash'rya," Leif rumbles softly.

"Pompous kitten," she chides him. "You think awfully highly of yourself, don't you?"

Leif gapes at her until she turns and informs him in a very blunt manner, "If you honestly think _anything_ could make me do something I didn't want to..."

He chuckles, reaches out and runs a claw through her pale hair. "Without you here to keep it in check, my ego will be completely out of control."

"No doubt. I suppose that means you'll just have to find time to visit me."

"Oh, I guess I could work a few trips to the Harbor into my busy schedule."

Tarra snorts. "You do that. It'll be a nice change for you: managing your time instead of trying to manage me."

"I never managed _you_," he argues. "I tried – and failed spectacularly – to manage how I... I mean, I tried to... to..."

This time, the silence is awkward and heavy, teetering with the unbalanced weight of unsaid things. And, of course, Tarra refuses to tolerate that. She lifts her hand to Leif's mane and gently pushes it aside so she can see the ornament he wears around his neck.

"Are you ever going to give this damn claw to me?" she challenges him. "It's mine, you know."

He chuckles at her directness. "Yes. I know."

"But... maybe it's best if we wait," Tarra muses in a teasing lilt. No, her tone is not wise – not at all! – it _drips_ with Challenge. She's too transparent to successfully wield the weapon of emotional manipulation. But, then again, Alice had never taught her how to do that. Naturally, she uses it poorly, awkwardly. Fantastically. No, Tarra does not want to _guilt_ Leif into surrendering to her. She is simply too prideful to beg for it. This is _her _way of expressing her desires, of admitting what is in her heart. "You would wait for me, right?" she continues, her lips curling into a knowing smile. "It's just for a couple years... until I finish my apprenticeship."

"A couple of years..." Leif muses, humor making his golden eyes glow. "That's all the freedom I have left?"

"Oh, definitely. Once you're mine..." She shakes her head in warning.

Leif, interestingly enough, doesn't look all that concerned. He looks... thrilled. And then he looks... sad. "I will miss you, Tarrash'rya," he informs her, brushing the backs of his furred fingers against her cheek. And then he reaches up, lifts the thong that holds his First Claw over his head... and settles it over hers. "... and now I won't," he concludes, settling the necklace against her neck and centering the claw over her tunic.

For a long moment, they say nothing... simply smile into each other's gazes, wait for their souls to touch, to merge, to share... And then Tarra gasps, reaches for his paw. She rasps, "_Leif... _I can... _feel..._" She pauses, swallows. "Is that how you... for me?"

"Yes," he rumbles, his own expression morphing with awe, with amazement, with flunderwhapped delight. "Yes, that's what I feel, but you... _you...!_ How is this possible? You... for _me?_ You're still so... _young!_"

He reaches for her as her hands disappear into his thick mane.

"Tarrash'rya?"

Tarra shakes her head, gently reprimanding him. "I've_ always _felt this way, you blind idiot. You were just too stupidly stubborn to notice."

"Not anymore," he swears and then leans down and kisses her.

Mirana smiles as she steps back from the railing of her office balcony and gives the couple embracing under the garden arbor the privacy they deserve. Yes, she is a mother and yes, she is inclined to snoop, but Tarra does not need her now. Tarra is _happy._ And it is Mirana's job, as both a mother _and_ a queen, to ensure she has every opportunity to enjoy that happiness.

She returns to her desk and the proposal lying atop it. Negotiations will resume shortly and she has a decision to make.

Mirana picks up the parchment, reads it once more, and then calls for a footman. Marshing answers it a few moments later and, entering the office, croaks, "What can I do for you, Your Majesty?"

"You can deliver an invitation to Jaspien. I would like him to join the negotiations today and present his ideas."

"As you wish, Your Majesty."

The frog bows himself out and Mirana glances toward the balcony. Oh, she _is _tempted to check on them, but... _no_. She'll settle for asking the trees later.

Yes, Tarra had been right; the ever-blossoming cherry trees _are _terrible gossips, especially about romance.

And they _have _been fortunate in that regard, Mirana knows. Tarra and Leif. Herself and Dale. Alice and Tarrant.

Oh. Yes. Alice and Tarrant. Mirana's heart aches for them, for herself, for what is coming. For what neither she nor Tarrant must be permitted to prevent, to stop, to circumvent. No, _no one_ must interfere in the coming events.

And come they will.

For good... or ill.

* * *

[End of Chapter 14]

* * *

Notes: Yes, this is the last chapter in OPK Book 4. Next up is the Epilogue and... you guessed it: Book 5.


	163. Book 4, Epilogue

This chapter is rated** M** for reference to sexual situations. (Yes, yes, I know some of you think I'm overly cautious with my ratings, but this site _is _used by underage readers. I am attempting to be a RESPONSIBLE author-type-person.)

* * *

_**Epilogue  
**_

All things must end.

Tarrant hates those four words, especially in that particular order. In fact, he hates them with increasing intensity with each passing day.

He's wasting Time, he knows. Time is not infinite, after all. (That is – unfortunately – a very easy fact to forget here in Underland where people are as young as they feel and Time galumphs rather than marches.) Well... perhaps Time itself is infinite, but Tarrant's time... That is another matter entirely.

He had forced himself not to Dwell on the future, although he had not been able to stop himself from thinking on it, he _had _managed to keep the prolonged contemplation of it to a minimum. Busy-ness had helped: the Barterment had been a wonderfully busy time with Alice and Tam at his side throughout the entirety of it. More busy-ness had followed that event: they had returned to Iplam, had delivered the orders that had been placed through them by residents of far away lands, had organized foodstuff exchanges; Tarrant had sewn a high-collared blouse for Alice so that they could go Above for tea while avoiding Questions; Tam had formally declared his intent to Master Time and had been introduced to the Royal Clockmaster at Mamoreal.

"I've never seen a young man with such a keen insight into the workings of time," Albertie Tickings had confessed. "Although he's a bit young to start it would be a waste to make him wait... I'd be willing to set aside a day a week to work with him, if that's agreeable, Laird Hightopp?"

And it had been. Now Tam visits Mamoreal not only to pass Sir Fenruffle's exams but to meet the Clockmaster. They leave in the evening and return the following night. Alice spends the day at Mamoreal with her Champion's duties, advising the queen and training with the White Guard. Tarrant assists his skillful apprentice with more and more challenging hats. And Tamial – bit by bit – masters Time.

How ironic that this is the path his son has chosen.

How perfect that this is the path _Alice_'_s _son has chosen.

The irony and perfection he cannot – _must not_ – Contemplate, for if he starts...

Tarrant shakes his head and focuses on the hat that sits at a jaunty angle on the head of its wooden model. It is a cap, a ladies' cap, meant to be worn in a saucy manner. Which is fine. Sauciness matches the cap's intention quite nicely.

The base is a striking deep blue and many of the long, curling, carefully shaved feathers are variations of the same hue. They twist and curve, conform to the wearer's head, each with its own message to deliver. He had considered those messages carefully, just as he'd considered the color with equal care. There are emerald greens, indigo blues, violet purples, and even a magenta feather here and there. Each with a message or a thought or a wish or hope. The creation of this hat had come from the very depths of his heart, his soul.

And now it is finished.

He does not wish for it to be finished. He is not ready.

He will never be ready.

Never!

"Tarrant?"

He turns away for a moment, groping for a handkerchief and scrubbing at his eyes, at the pair of fat tears that threaten to leap from his lashes. "Yes, Alice?"

The house is quiet today; Tamial is spending the day with the Paneshines, learning about the glass he will one day use when he is permitted to make his first clock or pocket watch. He listens as Alice approaches, her feet scuffing against the rug on his workroom floor.

"You're hurting again," she observes on a breath, stepping around his back and making herself at home on his lap. His chair groans, but accommodates them. He watches as she pats the armrest in a silent gesture of appreciation and then looks up into his eyes.

She can only hold his gaze for so long before the mark on her neck draws his attention. His fingertips brush over his wife's throat and the scar he had given her. (The scar _he _had **given** _her!_) Every day, it heals bit by bit. Every day is a bit more Time. He should be thankful, he knows. He _should_ be, but he isn't. Can't! _Won't!_

"Why are you so angry?" Alice whispers, petting his brows, his cheeks, his ears.

He shakes his head. He cannot tell her. He _cannot._

He returns his attention to her newest scar. It is healing slowly. Very slowly. Mirana had informed them that Pain Paste only soothes away hurts that are Unwelcome. It only helps the resulting scar fade if the injury had been Unwanted.

Alice had Welcomed – had Wanted – this one.

And so it heals slowly.

He leans into her touch, marvels that her hands are rough again – her students are no doubt training hard for the first Festival of War Games which will take place within a fortnight's time – and her smile is happy and yet she is still a Lady here. She still organizes the foodstuff exchange. She still makes time to give basic lessons to the handful of young ones in the village. His wife: a lady, a Champion, and soon...

Tarrant shies away from that thought.

"Would a bit of sparring help?" she asks, rubbing his shoulders.

He shakes his head. No, no sparring will not help. Sparring will Remind him of the time, long ago, when Alice had asked:

_"Where did you learn to fight?"_

And he had answered:

_"Most of it I learned from my Fa. Then I relearned it after that Horvendush Day..."_

He shudders.

"Please, talk to me," she whispers into his hair, against the crown of his head.

"That, my Alice," he replies, his lips curving into a smile... _finally_, "I can do. And so can this."

He reaches around her and gestures to the hat – the _only_ hat – on his worktable.

Alice twists in his arms, on his lap, and regards it. "Oh! You've finished it? Your first Hightopp Hat Invention?"

"Yes," he lisps. "And," he continues, collecting it with one bandaged hand and holding it up for her inspection, "it is for you, love."

Against and around his heart, Alice's adoration and awe throbs... painfully. He closes his eyes and sighs. Yes, he'd known she would like it. This. His first invention.

"Try it on," he bids her.

She takes the hat from his hands, stands, turns, seats herself on the worktable, and he watches as she places it on her head and secures it to her short hair with the clips he'd installed upon it.

He watches his wife wearing his hat, his invention...

And then he leans forward and blows, causing one of the dark blue feathers to brush her cheek, and watches a bit more.

Her eyes widen with surprise... and then a smile stretches her lips... She reaches up and trails her fingertips along a green feather and then she dares to fondle a purple one and suddenly her eyes are twinkling with a very _naughty_ light.

He giggles, momentarily shedding the Knowledge he carries with him. "You look very... fetching, my Alice."

"Tarrant..." she whispers. She licks her lips. "What do you call this marvelous invention?"

"Why, it's a Thinking Cap."

"Is it?"

"Yes, yes. Each feather contains one of my thoughts... about the wearer."

Green for memories of laughter and being together. Blue for moments of love. Purple for his passion and magenta for...

He holds his breath as she reaches blindly and her fingertips manage to find and caress one of the rare magenta feathers attached to the hat. He is not sure if she will like those thoughts. It has been a very _long _time since she has asked him to...

"And, how many wearers has this cap been made for?" she asks, her eyes taking on an impassioned glaze. He smirks. He can guess precisely which thoughts of his she's listening to now!

"Just one. Just you."

"And if someone else should... try on this hat?" she dares, sliding her knee between his and along the inside of his left thigh.

"It will keep my secrets," he assures her, slumping a bit in his chair, pressing back against her touch. "And yours."

"Hm. Mine," she agrees, her lips parting and her breaths becoming a bit thin. She leans forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders. Tarrant allows his own hands to glide up her trousered legs to her hips.

"Do you like it, my Alice?"

"I do, Raven. Very much."

He reaches up and guides one indigo feather in particular to the shell of her ear and tucks it against her skin.

She gasps. Just as he'd hoped she would.

"Do you really...?" she whispers in his ear as his hands delve beneath her shirt and vest.

"Do I really...?"

She leans in so close he can feel her lips brush his ear. "... think I'm beautiful?"

And then she gasps as he Answers her with his heart.

"Yes," he whispers needlessly – no, not _needlessly_, for although she does not need to hear it – his heart speaks for him – he needs to _say _it! "You are _Beautiful_, my Alice, my Raven, mine..."

"Tarrant," she sighs against his skin, making him shudder. "Thank you..."

And then she Shows him precisely How Much she likes his Thinking Cap, how much she loves his thoughts, how much she adores _him_. And, for a short time, Tarrant does not think about _why_ he had so badly needed to make this particular hat for her nor _why_ he had rushed to finish it and fill it with thoughts.

He does not think about the future or the past.

He allows himself to forget for a few moments the unavoidable Truth:

All things must end.

* * *

*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*

* * *

Notes:

1. The Thinking Cap is based on a ladies' cocktail hat. If you Google images of "ladies' cocktail hat" you should be able to find examples that use feathers in a similar way to what I describe here.

2. Will Tam Futterwhacken again? What unavoidable future is coming that both Tarrant and Mirana seem to know so much about? Are we ever going to know what it means to Court Fate? The answers to these questions (and more) are coming... with One Promise Kept: Book 5. (As usual, Book 5 will be posted on my homepage first. See my profile/bio on FFnet for the link.)


	164. Book 5, The Scar, 1 of 2

_The following is a work of __**fan fiction**__. NO profit or compensation was provided in exchange. NO copyright infringement is intended._

_**One Promise Kept**_**_: Book 5_**  
a fan fiction by Manniness  
_Alice in Wonderland (2010 film version)_

**Summary:** The citizens of Underland enjoy peace again, but when the consequences of the brief rebellion result in Tarrant's death, Alice swears to bring him back to her. **_Whatever_**_ it takes_.

**Rating and Warnings: M** for Violence, Angst, Character Death, Sexual Situations (non-explicit), Mature Language

**Promises:** A HAPPY ENDING. Seriously. If you trust me, all this misery will SO BE WORTH IT.

**Status:** Finished! [Available on my homepage – please see my bio for the link, but PLEASE NOTE THE RATING and WARNINGS!]

**Notes:** A _Glossary of Outlandish_ is available on my homepage. Please see my FFnet bio for the link. Also, there is **fanart** for this story - see my profile/bio for the links. Thanks.

* * *

_**Chapter One: The Scar  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

Iplam has changed.

Now, in addition to the self-centered and petty bickering of the chickens and the humdrum dum-di-dum of craftspeople plying their trades, the metallic crashing and clashing of swords rings out across the clearing.

Tarrant Hightopp trips lightly down the steps of the manor house, temporarily abandoning the chaos of his workshop. He sits down on the last step and looks out across the field at the sight before him.

His wife – Alice, Lady Hightopp of Iplam and the White Queen's Champion – wields a sword with precision and skill. Her student, however...

"Move your feet, Ursa!" Alice commands and the bear attempts to shuffle a bit faster across the packed dirt arena while meeting Alice's attacks. "Stop focusing on defense" is the next instruction. "Keep your head up" is followed by "watch where I'm leading you!" and then "either attack or knock my sword away, little girl. You're wasting your efforts!"

In the end, Alice is the one to tear the blade from her student's paw.

The bear bows her head as Alice leans down and collects the dropped blade from the ground.

To her credit, Alice doesn't sigh. She doesn't even lose patience. In a low tone that Tarrant hears only because he is straining to do so, his wife returns the weapon to the young she-bear. "Your grip still isn't strong enough, Ursa."

The tawny-colored beast nods. "Maybe I should... I mean... My father's expecting me to..."

"You will do him proud at the Games," Alice assures her, rubbing the bear's sloped shoulder. "We have nearly a fortnight left and you've come so far since you came."

"But why can't I manage a good attack?"

"Because you are hesitating," Alice informs her bluntly.

"Maybe I'd fight better if I were angry..."

"No," Tarrant's wife replies in the flat tone of unequivocal certainty. "If you get angry you will lose, no matter what. Strategy, Ursalea. Strategy. Now, go find Tabien. And tell him if he hasn't sharpened that sword he won't be getting a sparring lesson today, either."

The bear lopes off and Tarrant watches as Alice – his wife, a warrior without compare – wipes her hands on a grungy cloth. Not so long ago she had been despondent, defeated, desolate and without purpose. Now, with the first Festival of War Games looming just around the proverbial corner, she is the antithesis of all those things. She is Muchy again. Strong. Capable.

For an instant he nearly chokes on the mix of pride and resentment and sorrow and rage.

Alice looks up at that, of course. How could she not? He has been wretched at shielding her from his spikes in emotion and shifts in mood. And his heart line, despite being crippled, has compensated rather _too_ well. He ought to try harder to protect her from the things he feels. To _pretend_ for her.

_But_, his other Self argues, _perhaps ye should__** prepare**__ her instead._

He knows what that will mean if he does and it breaks his heart to contemplate it.

Summoning a smile, he watches as she strides toward him and the earthenware pitcher of cool water sitting in the shade beside him on the steps. He offers her a ladle-full and when she accepts it, their fingers brush.

"You rushed out of bed again," she muses before sipping from the lip of the spoon.

"Much to do!" he says with as much joy as he can muster.

"I suppose there is. What are you working on now?"

"Something for Tam," he answers as Alice pivots around and plops down next to him on the steps. He resists leaning away from her. Nothing would give him more pleasure than to pull her into his arms and kiss her breathless... but if he were to invite her that close she might notice...

"Are you all right?" she says, her dark gaze missing nothing. "You look pale."

"Haberdashery can do that," he replies.

"And are those wrinkles?" Alice reaches out a finger to trace the fine crevasses forming in his skin at the corners of his eyes and bracketing his mouth.

He captures her hand before she can confirm her suspicions and forces a grin. This is not the first time she has asked that particular question, nor is this the first time he White Lies in answer. "Laugh lines," he tells her, kissing her dusty fingertips.

"Hm." Alice turns her hand in his and grasps his fingers. "There's gray in your hair," she observes. "Will you tell me why?"

"_Why?_ Do you know how many unbirthdays I've had, my Alice?"

"Why do you feel so sad and then so angry sometimes? I don't understand... Is it something I have done? These students of mine—?"

"No! No, my Alice. I've never been more proud of you, nor more proud to be your husband."

She leans closer and embraces his face with her hands and he cannot shrink back from her without her Noticing so he holds still. "Tell me why you feel so old, Tarrant. Something is aging you. Some worry or stress."

When he doesn't answer, simply studies his knees in guilty silence, she presses, "Tam has asked. He noticed and, yes, your son is worried about you."

"What did you tell him?"

"I told him you weren't getting much sleep," she replies with a blithely suggestive grin.

Tarrant barks out a giggle. "I suppose he wasn't so curious after that."

"Not particularly, no."

He sighs happily, loving this moment; laughing with his wife.

"Tarrant..."

He shakes his head. "I'm fine, Raven."

She sighs. "You're not. Let me help. _Please_, Tarrant."

He clenches his jaw. Oh, how he _wants_ to tell her, to be rid of this burden. But oh, how he doesn't. He does not think he is strong enough to weather the storm of her rage.

There is nothing that can be done. In fact, nothing _must _be done. He will not make her miserable with that knowledge.

Her grip is strong; he can feel the warmth of her life in her touch. He closes his eyes and revels even as he rages in silence.

"I can Feel that, you know," she whispers.

"I know," he replies on a breath. "I love you, Alice."

"Your Alice."

"My Alice."

"And I love you. More than anything, Tarrant Hightopp."

She leans forward and the kiss is brief but indescribably sweet. He feels waves of heat unfold within his chest. Love and lust and longing... and if only he had _more __**Time!**_

He opens his eyes and sees the promise of sensual delights gleaming in her dark eyes and he would _love_ to accept that invitation, except...

Except a lanky young man turns the corner of the house, heading for the small, makeshift arena. With a regret-filled sigh, Alice leans away and pulls her hands from his skin.

"The sword even looks sharp," he murmurs. "Go and show him how to use it, Raven."

Alice huffs out a puff of laughter and, with a conspiratorial wink, stands and addresses her approaching student.

"Tabien. How many times do I have to tell you not to hold your sword like a knock-kneed borogove at a croquet match?"

Chuckling, Tarrant moves back toward the house. He pauses at the door and looks over his shoulder at his wife as she demonstrates the proper sword grip. _He_ had taught her that grip. Tarrant remembers daringly reaching out to position her fingers. He had even stood behind her, wrapped his arms around her, nudged her knees with his own, pressed his hips against hers... Teaching her to hold a sword had nearly been the death of him. There had been so many times when he had clung to control with only the most desperate of failing grips. There had been so many times when he had been sure his heart would break for good at the thought of the horrible path she would soon be walking.

If only he had known then what he knows now...

If only he had guessed the sacrifices that she would be required to make, the pain she would have to endure...

If only he could save her from what is coming!

If only things had been different!

If only... if only...!

If only he had _more __**Time!**_

But, then again, he suspects that no amount of time with his Alice would _ever_ be enough.

* * *

End of Chapter 1: Scene 1 of 2


	165. Book 5, The Scar, 2 of 2

_Warning: This scene is **rated M** for non-explicit sexual situations. There's also a fair bit of angst, too._

* * *

_**Chapter One: The Scar  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Alice wakes in a rush of awareness:

She is warm.

The bed is soft.

The room is gray with first light.

Her husband is wrapped around her... again.

Alice frowns in thought and sighs gently. Against her back, he shifts slightly. His arm tightens across her waist. His leg inches up her thigh. His sleepy exhalation is nearly a groan as he nuzzles into the curve of her neck.

Slowly, carefully, Alice turns toward him. The last thing she wants is for him to leap out of bed, jump into his trousers and dash from the room on the pretense of getting a kettle on and then spending a full day in his workshop. Again.

She places her right hand over his and leans back just enough to glimpse his face. The light is dim – dawn has just kissed the horizon good morning – so she counts twice, just to be sure, but concludes that yes... her husband's face holds more wrinkles now than it had yesterday although they are still fine and easily hid behind a smile. And his skin is _much _paler now than it had been just a few weeks ago. She had thought perhaps his pallor had been due to the weakening sunlight of the season, but now she's not so sure. And, yes, there are gray hairs – here and there – winding their way through his long, auburn locks.

_What are you hiding from me?_ she wants to ask. _What terrible secret is making you feel so old?_

She notes the way he clings to her in his sleep and adds:

_What horrible knowledge makes you feel so alone?_

Alice closes her eyes and focuses on the heart line. But it tells her nothing new. In his sleep he does not suddenly bloom with rage or plummet into despair. She has lost count of the number of times she has asked him to confide in her, to trust her, to _tell _her what is wrong. Tarrant is _purposefully_ keeping something from her.

She feels frustration – her own, not her husband's – burn in her chest and gather in stinging pools in her eyes. Her husband _has_ tried to shield her from his own overwhelming emotions and horrors before... for her Own Good, of course. Now, however, she wonders. With the exception of the night Valereth had died (Alice_ still _knows little more than she'd been run through, presumably with the man's cane sword), Tarrant has never kept a secret so long from her before. Not since they'd bound their hearts together with the Thrice a-Vow. In fact, she is not sure precisely how long he has been keeping it. Sometime, within the last month, it had slithered into their lives and begun tormenting him, tormenting her, tormenting _them_.

It had started sometime around the Champions' Duel that Alice had fought against her former apprentice. Yes, what she had asked Tarrant to do in order to succeed in their plan to circumvent civil unrest had been unforgivable. For several weeks, she had assumed that the cause of his heartache had been just that: he had been struggling to forgive her for asking so much of him, struggling to forgive himself for acquiescing.

But then... earlier this week he had given her the most delightful hat: a Thinking Cap, he'd called it. He had filled it with his thoughts and memories and hopes and she had _felt_ his love, eternal and enduring. They had come together – rather recklessly! – in his workroom. He had been a force of nature, moving over her like a storm that knows it will soon rage itself out. In fact, their lovemaking had been so sudden and overwhelming that they hadn't even managed to remove their shirts...

Alice glances down at her husband as he frowns in his sleep. His left hand clutches the front of his nightshirt, as if he fears that in letting it go, it will blow away and leave him to some imaginary chill. The gesture reminds her of his most recent habit: time and time again, she has noticed him lift a hand to his chest, slide his fingers beneath his vest and press them against his heart line, massage it even. Why? Has something happened to it? Does it pain him? And, now that she thinks of it, how long has it been since she'd last _seen_ Tarrant's heart line? She reaches back through her memory and counts the days... weeks...

Startled, she blinks. It has been _weeks_ since she has seen his heart line!

How could she have _not_ missed that until now?

But she knows the answer to that: the Barterment, Tam's apprenticeship, her duties at Mamoreal, the Festival of War Games... Their days have started early (dressing in near darkness) and ended late (sometimes neglecting to undress at all). Yes, both she and Tarrant have been very busy. Most especially _her_, and most especially _here_, at Iplam, since their return.

Alice sighs. Yes, the Barterment had gone well and many of Iplam's craftspeople are already working on the custom orders they had received. There are still delivery methods to arrange, but life is slowing down for Tarrant, at least. Alice, as the White Queen's Champion _not_ in-residence... well. When she'd selected members from the White Guard to fulfill her duties to the queen in her absence (standing guard during the audiences the queen holds weekly and so forth), she had not expected... When Leif had gone to Causwick to oversee the earthworks and festival preparations, Alice had thought that perhaps she might be called upon to join him there just before the opening of the festival to ensure the Games proceed safely and as expected, but... she had hardly expected for her skills as an instructor to be sought after.

But they had been. _Are._

The seven students she spends her mornings with had arrived in ones and twos. They had come to Iplam seeking instruction from the White Queen's Champion and they have demanded much of her attention. Augur had been the first to arrive. And, when she had not sent him back to Crimson Harbor – when she had agreed to help him train for the Games that will be held in Causwick Callion before the first snow – Boreal's daughter, a bear by the name of Ursalea, had come. And then two lads she had seen at the Maigh a few years back: Tabien Leatherway and Malik Goldbrung. Even Lord Hornsaver of Galandonland had permitted his young son – Sir Silveran – to seek out Alice. (She had completely forgotten that the unicorn lord had married some years ago until the nearly-grown colt had arrived with a contingent of guards bearing the Galandonland colors and had announced both himself and his intent to participate in the Games!) The most recent additions to her class of would-be combatants had been none other than Abler Masonmark and a lass named Corea Castlatch.

When Tarrant had Called her to the front door to see the pair standing at the bottom of the stairs, she had felt the suspicion and hostility roll off of him in _waves._ She had placed a hand on his arm, had stopped him from throwing them off their land.

"You'll sleep with the others in the stables and you'll help with the harvest and whatever else the people here require in exchange for our hospitality," Alice had said without preamble.

The two of them had agreed once they'd recovered from their shock at Alice's directness.

And as she and Tarrant had watched Abler and Corea make their way toward the stables, he had sighed and agreed, "Aye, 'twill be better teh keep an eye on them here."

Alice hadn't liked having the young man who had once tried to kill her husband so near them, but she had bowed to the wisdom of the old adage: "Keep your friends close... and your enemies closer."

She had whispered this, had kissed her husband, and had gone back inside to finish getting ready for a morning spent training Underland's first War Games gladiators.

She still can't believe that her life has become so... full. She is still a lady... and yet she is also a Champion. Alice lives a life that happily lies at the intersection between two very different ways of life. Some days she feels as if she has been too fortunate.

Today, however, is not one of them. Today, she wakes up to not only another fine Underlandian day, but the realization that she is allowing the momentum of her new life here – and it _is_ a rather formidable force to reckon with – pull her away from her husband; she has been permitting that momentum to excuse her from fighting Tarrant for the right to _know_ what is hurting him. It had been easy to do. It had been easy to focus on the issues that _demand_ her attention rather than the ones that actively avoid it.

But no longer.

She reaches up and brushes her fingers through Tarrant's long, subtly graying hair.

What is burning him from within? What is turning his beauty and vibrancy to ash?

She wants to ask, to _know_, and she will! Despite the fear that locks her throat and silences her voice, she resolves not to leave this bed until he has confessed his secret!

The force of her Determination thunders through her... and wakes him. He stirs. His lashes flutter and he stretches against her. He opens his eyes – the most beautiful green she has ever seen – and gazes into hers and, feeling invigorated with strength and purpose, she smiles for him. She _wishes_ her strength into him... And for a moment he is nearly his former self. The wrinkles fade, his color returns...

But the moment is brief. The color of his irises darkens and muddies as his mind awakens, as whatever malicious thought that is harming him is remembered. Glimpsing that sickening shade of hopeless green before he lowers his gaze, Alice sighs with frustration and pulls him closer.

"Shall I write you a desk or raven you an idea, love?" she whispers.

He shakes his head, takes a deep breath, then lifts his face from her shoulder. "A cup of tea with my wife will suffice in a thrice."

Laughing, Alice kisses him. "I love your iambic pentameter; nothing else matters."

The last three words she conveys solemnly, gently combing her fingers through his hair. True, she will not let him leave this bed – not willingly – until he Talks to her, but she will ask once more first...

She winds a lock of gray-streaked auburn around her fingers and waits, breath held for him to respond to her encouragement. He hesitates. Alice impatiently nudges him through their heart line.

"Please. Tell me."

His hand cups her face briefly before his fingers investigate her frown lines. "I would rather die than see you unhappy for even a moment, Alice. I'm a slurvish man, I know."

The feeling of his heartache pulsing in _her_ chest pushes tears from her eyes. "No more slurvish than I am controlling," she answers, acknowledging the fault that endears him to her with her own imperfection.

"Nae," he argues, leaning forward and pressing his mouth to hers.

She answers his kiss, defies her usual early morning, pre-tea stupor by wrapping an arm around him, hooking her knee around his. In the next moment, she is leaning over him in their bed, her hands tearing at her clothes. The urgency comes from nowhere... or from too many somewheres. She feels as if he is moving away from her... and yet he is _here_. The heart line aches, as it always does during his every waking moment and it frightens her. She wants to Feel something from him that is not resignation, unhappiness, misery, or anger!

"Alice," he whispers. It almost sounds like a protest, but she tells herself she must have heard wrong. It is morning and, as usual, he is hard and she wants him _now_. She needs him to forget – to _heal _from – whatever causes these fine lines on his face and the fading color of his hair and the indistinct, aimless, ghostly heartache that makes her want to weep one instant and then, in the next, burns her with fury and terrifies her with desolate resignation...

Rather than fight buttons, Alice pulls her nightshirt off, up over her hand and tosses it aside.

She leans over his chest. "I need you," she murmurs against his neck, her fingers working at the buttons on his shirt. Beneath her, his hips move helplessly, inflaming her further.

Yes, she wants this. She wants it fast and she wants to be overwhelmed and she wants her husband to be reborn from the ashes of their passion. She wants to see his eyes bright and his face unlined and flushed with health and his hair lustrous...

"Alice...!" he whispers urgently. "Alice... _stop!_"

His hands find hers where they are struggling with the third button on his shirt. She freezes, leans back and gapes at him. He is holding her fingers tight enough to hurt her, but she doesn't care.

"Stop?" she parrots, disbelieving.

He says nothing, simply shifts his gaze away. For a long moment, there is only silence in their room. Silence and the muffled sounds from the settlement beyond and below their window.

"Stop... please," he finally whispers and her heart is immolated by the emotion he cannot hold back, the torrent that _pours_ over her heart.

She shudders. "No." He is still hard against her. In a moment of torn cloth he could be _inside_ her and she wants that. She wants _him._ "Tell me _why._"

Resolute, she twists her fingers out of his grip and grasps the sides of his shirt in her hands.

"Alice, _stop, please!_"

Again, he traps her fingers.

"I want to see your heart line," she declares. And, in a moment of insight, accuses, "Is _that_ what you're hiding from me?" Her mind races with all the horrors she can imagine. "Is it infected? Have you re-injured it? _Show me_."

"_Alice! I would rather __**die**_ _than...!_"

With a sudden motion, Alice rotates her wrists, grips his hands and pushes them flat against the bed. She doesn't ask for permission; she leans down, pinning him against the bed. He struggles briefly. He is bigger than her, heavier. He could probably manage to toss her off the bed and onto the floor, but she knows he won't. Tarrant would never hurt her. Not to save himself. His halfhearted attempts to stop her last only as long as it takes for her to force the next button to yield to her teeth.

And he quiets but he is not calm. She nuzzles aside his shirt and he sobs.

"Please?" he begs. "Don't look, Alice. _Please._"

"I must," she apologizes. And then she lifts herself up to examine his Heart Mark.

And hears herself gasp even though she does not feel the breath rush down her aching throat.

She stares at the lines that meander over his shoulder, across his pale skin to form the dark red four-pointed star-shaped design over his heart. She shakes her head in disbelief.

"Your scar..." she mouths, horrified.

Tarrant's scar – the scar from the knife wound he'd received from Abler Masonmark's throwing knife in the tunnel between Crims and the Slough – _has __**moved.**_

"This—is—impossible!" she gasps.

She releases his hands, places her own over his chest which shudders with silent sobs. She frames the flesh with her fingers, measures the distance her husband's scar has traveled along his heart line, as if flowing on a river's current...

It is impossible for Tarrant's scar to have moved three whole inches. It is _impossible_ for his scar to now be so frighteningly close to the Heart Mark... to his _heart._

"Many things are possible in Underland," he whispers. His voice sounds as broken as his heart Feels to her.

"Not this," she informs him. "You were _healed_. This should be _fading_ not _**moving**_ and... _what will happen when... __**is this moving toward your heart? WHY?**__"_

"Alice," he murmurs roughly, framing her face in his palms as her tears splatter against his skin. "Calm dauwn, luv."

She refuses. "Is _this _what you've been hiding from me? _Tell me __**why**__, TARRANT!_"

His fingers tighten against her jaw and cheeks. His expression hardens.

"The scar is moving," he admits with almost clinical detachment. It _would_ have been a factual statement had his anger not been the driving force behind the words. "When Masonmark threw that knife, he did so with _Intent._ He intended for it to strike me in the heart. He missed. But his Intent... Intent... _matters_."

His fingers trail down to her throat. "It matters," he repeats, brushing his hands over her newest scar. "That's why this one took so long to heal. That's why mine is moving."

She shakes her head. "No. No, that's not true! If Intent mattered, then Oshtyer never would have recovered from the wound _you_ gave him... after the Wooing Rites. He never should have been able to..." Yes, Tarrant had been quite _clear_ on precisely _where_ he had struck Oshtyer with one of his throwing knives. And yet the man had somehow – weeks after the fact – been fully interested in utilizing that part of his substandard anatomy to subjugate Alice. Only Jaspien's intervention had stood in the man's way, only the prince's excellent timing and declaration that Alice be left alone the night before the Champions' Duel had saved her. She does not doubt that – had Oshtyer managed to enter her room – she would have been too far gone with Hafflaffen poisoning to refuse him.

With visible reluctance, Tarrant explains, "He was healed, Alice. Before my Intent to castrate the booly-geber could—!" He pauses, takes a deep breath. "He was healed quickly and completely and then sent on his way."

"And you weren't," Alice realizes. They had run for their lives all night, had struggled through Gummer Slough all morning, had plodded through the wasteland of the Callion to the castle where they'd had to make do with less-than-effective remedies...

Alice lifts her gaze to his, takes in the color of Worry and Defeat in his eyes. "What does this mean?"

He swallows. "We couldnae remove th' Intent, which I believe was fer tha' knife teh cleave mae heart."

"But it's just a scar," she argues. "It's just a scar! So it moves! It can't hurt you! Not after so much time, after it has healed over!"

"My Alice..." His breath hitches and he pulls her close to him now. "No one can survive a scar this deep running through their heart."

Alice stares even though she takes no note of what she sees before her.

Tarrant whispers, "Before I gave Tam my pocket watch, I checked the time. My time. I... don't have much left to give you, Raven. I'm sorry."

Despite being crushed against his chest, Alice shakes her head, smearing tears and snot against his skin and nightshirt. "No. No..."

His arms stir, tighten. "I'm sae sorry. I should have told ye sooner, but I... I'm a slurvish man."

Yes, he had confessed as much earlier. He would rather _die _than see her unhappy.

"_Were_ you going to tell me? Or were you simply planning on dropping _dead_ without warning?" she fairly shouts against him, her hands curling into fists. The fabric of his nightshirt is the only thing that keeps her blunt nails from piercing the skin of her palms.

"Aye," he admits. "I was slurvish enough teh want teh... teh... teh _die_," he whispers on a thread of breath, "withou' havin' teh see ye mourn me, Alice."

"Well, unfortunately, we don't all get what we wish for!" she grits out, infuriated. "Unless, of course, your name is Abler Masonmark!"

Tarrant's arms lock around her like bands of warm steel. She fights against him, trying to wedge her arms between them so that she can gain some leverage with which to free herself... so that she can _find_ Abler Masonmark and... and...!

Her husband doesn't let her.

"Hush, Alice! Stop! 'Tis usal naught teh be—"

"No use?" she echoes. "_No use?_ That bastard _wants _you to die and you're just going to let him keep on _wishing_ you into the grave?"

"Alice! _No!_ The Intent was cast in the moment he threw the knife! 'Tis independent o' th' lad's wishes nauw!" He presses a kiss to her hair, her forehead. She considers biting him in retaliation. "Ye cannae think tha' boy knew what he was doin' when he threw tha' knife... Ye cannae think tha' after watchin' ye bleed out on th' battlefield tha' he still wants teh kill anyone."

Alice growls incoherently.

"Ye've been trainin' him these last twine weeks. Ye _ken_ he's a good lad at heart."

"Bloody hell. I cannot _believe_ I'm hearing this. From you! That rotten little, miserable excuse for a _child_ has _done this to you__** and you aren**_**'**_**t even angry with him?**__"_

"I was," he admits on a sigh. "You felt it even though I wanted to shield you from it..." Yes, he _had_ tried to shield her from that anger. He had not always succeeded, obviously. "I was _bey-urious_, Alice. You know I was."

"I didn't know why."

"Not at the time, no. No, you didn't."

She lifts her head and glares at him through her tears. "How can you _not_ be angry** now**?" she demands.

He gazes into her face. "I am," he admits softly as he slowly releases the control he wields over his heart. "I didn't want you to know, Alice. I didn't want our last days together to be so..."

"These are _not _our last days, Tarrant Hightopp. We are going to Mirana _today_ for a cure!"

He sighs. "There is none. Please, Alice. Please just put it out of your mind..."

"Out of my mind? _Out of my mind?_" It takes all of her strength to keep from screaming at him. "How can you be so... so... _calm?_"

"Because," he replies, loosening his arms and rubbing her back. "You know the truth now. And... it's nice not to be so alone anymore. Even though I didn't want to... burden you with this... it... I..."

"Shut up," she tells him. She reaffirms her grasp on his nightshirt, leans back and _tears_ the garment open. Buttons fly across the room and fall with a rattle-tinkle-and-spin. "Shut up and make love to me."

He reaches for her, rolls her beneath him and presses his mouth to hers. She opens for him ferociously. It is not so much a kiss as a punishment.

"Shhh..." he murmurs, pulling away before she can bite him hard enough to make him bleed. His lips move to her jaw where they press whispery kisses. "We have time," he tells her. "There's time. We have now. An' there's nae rush, mae Alice. Mae Raven..."

Alice sobs under his caresses and despairs: she may be his Raven, but she hasn't the slightest idea of how she's going to survive a day without him. She never thought she would have to consider it. But now she must.

Tarrant is dying.

He is leaving her and and they have a son who is not yet fully grown, who is not ready to stand on his own. She knows from her research on the Thrice a-Vow that it is possible for one partner to survive the death of the other. Especially if there is a child...

But Alice remembers Lord Ascot's soirée, the night Valereth had made his move... the night Tarrant had moved through Time and their heart lines had – briefly – shifted out of alignment. She remembers the sudden _nothingness_ surrounding her heart and the overwhelming, paralyzing Fear and...

Alice does not _want_ to live without her Hatter. She had not misspoken weeks ago when she had told him why she feels she must give her life to the queen despite her love for her husband: _Tarrant Hightopp_ is her Underland.

And wherever he goes, she will follow. Even into death.

But that time is not _now._ Her husband will _not_ die. It is not his time.

She will make sure of it!

* * *

End of Chapter 1


	166. Book 5, Unsaid Things, 1 of 2

_Warning: More angst._

* * *

_**Chapter Two: Unsaid Things  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

Mirana takes one look at Alice's face and feels her smile curl up and crawl into a corner of her mind. She regards her friend's expression, notes the lines of tension and misery that Alice struggles to hold behind her fury, and sighs.

Alice _knows._

"You didn't tell me."

The office door closes behind Alice. The sound is as soft as the accusation had been.

"You _knew_ yet you did not tell me."

"I didn't tell you," Mirana admits.

"_Why?_"

Mirana stands and moves around her desk. Yes, Alice is trembling with rage. Yes, her hands are fisted. Yes, she has every right and inclination to strike out. But Mirana has never feared her Champion, her friend. She will not start now.

"Because he doesn't have much time left. Because there is no cure."

Alice's lips pull back into a snarl. "I don't believe that! You once told me there was a rite for _everything _in Underland. You _know_ how to save him. Just _tell me what to do._"

"Alice..." Mirana whispers. She dares to reach out, to gather her Champion in her arms. Alice remains stiff, but she does not push Mirana away. "Alice, I'm so sorry."

The admission of defeat seems to cut Alice's knees out from under her. She sags against Mirana, who stumbles back a step under the sudden weight. Alice's hands cling to the queen's day dress, stressing the fabric.

Mirana pets Alice's hair. "When... _how_ did you discover the truth?"

"Yesterday morning," Alice chokes out. "And I _am_ married to him. He couldn't hide it from me forever."

"No, I don't expect he could."

"He wasn't even going to tell me. He was just going to let me worry what was wrong until the moment he... the moment that bloody scar...!"

Mirana bites her lip. She had left that choice up to Tarrant. The evening she had announced the resolution of the negotiations with the rebels, Tarrant had come to see her in her office.

"Let's call the others. I'm sure they have questions now that..."

Tarrant had nodded wearily and collapsed into an armchair. Mirana had sent for Mally and Chess and... the others. After the messenger had hopped off, Tarrant had confessed, "I don't know how to tell her... How to explain... I'm dying and she... she will have to..."

"I know. I remember."

"Why must it be _this way_?"

Mirana had sighed and rubbed his shoulder. This man had become a brother to her over the years. She would do nearly anything for him. But she would not – cannot – defy the Fates of Underland for him. "You know what will happen if we interfere."

She had never seen Tarrant Hightopp cry as he had that evening in the armchair that had stoically endured his misery-wracked, shuddering sobs. She had cried as well. She had not wanted these events to come so soon. She had tried to forget about them, had told herself that there would be another way, that she had misunderstood the messages, the signs...

Unfortunately, she had not.

Chessur had already guessed: "The scar," he had summarized with characteristic bluntness. "Of course I shalln't breathe a word of this to Alice. And I will ask Krystoval to take the juveniles... away for a time." Yes, Alice would surely think to move through Time, to go back, to save her husband... who must _not_ be saved.

Chessur had acknowledged Mirana's nod of agreement and then he'd gazed at Tarrant with sad eyes. "And just when we'd decided to be only _partly_ civil to each other... I should have guessed you wouldn't hold up your end of the bargain."

Mally had been inconsolably shocked. "But... but... she said he... her husband had... and she would be... and no. No… no."

And the others who – upon seeing their Champion's newest scar across her throat – had known the Truth...

It had, easily, been the most miserable meeting Mirana had conducted since regaining the crown.

"I need your help," Alice says, stepping back and rubbing her face briskly with both hands. "I need to contact Krystoval."

Oh, what Mirana would give to _not_ be the one to tell her friend what she must. "Alice, Krystoval and the other jabberwockies have gone."

"Gone? Why?" But before Mirana can decide between a White Lie or a Half Truth, Alice sighs. "Oh. Yes. I see." She rubs her eyes. "_Brangeragin i_'_tall_!"

Before Mirana can ask why the action seems to make sense to Alice when it shouldn't make sense at all, her Champion rallies: "In that case, I need to see the Oraculum again. I need to be allowed in the alchemy library. I need to... to..."

"Alice..." Mirana does not want to destroy her Champion's hopes... but how can she feed them, knowing what is around the corner? "The Oraculum will not help you now. And I have already searched the library myself."

"Well, _I _need to look. _I _need to..."

"Of course you do." The very strength of character that has always made Alice a remarkable warrior makes her just as stubborn now, in the face of imminent death and unavoidable pain. "But when you do not find the answers you seek, go home with your husband and son. Be with them."

Alice shakes her head, tears welling in her eyes despite how she clenches her jaw, regulates her breathing, smoothes her expression into relaxed blandness. "How can you give up so quickly? I thought _you_ of all people would..."

Mirana has no answer to that. She _had_ sought a cure, even knowing that it must not be used, she had _looked._ She had found nothing. Of course, she had _had _to search... her conscience would not have let her look herself in the mirror ever again had she not...

"If there is a cure," Mirana says thickly, "only the Fates know it. I'm sorry Alice."

"You're sorry." Alice nods. "Tarrant is sorry. Masonmark would probably be _bloody_ sorry if Tarrant would let me tell that _rotter what he'd done_!"

She shakes her head and turns away, pacing toward the hearth. "So let's all be _sorry!_ Let's just be _sorry_ and continue on with life as if _nothing_ will change! Let's show Amallya how to make a tricorn! Let's show Tam how to polish brass gears! Let's have meetings and talk about Tarra's latest bloody _chair_ and let's plan for another round of Wooing Rites that we both know aren't necessary in the _slightest_ and let's be _normal!_ Let's just pretend—pretend—_pretend—!_"

"Yes!" Mirana nearly shouts, jumping in as Alice's voice breaks and skips like a scratched record on the phonograph. "Yes, _let_'_s be normal, Alice! That_'_s what Tarrant wants! Wouldn_'_t you if __**you**__ were in his place?_"

Alice stares at her. The tears continue to fall. Her chin, despite being clenched, trembles. And then Alice sinks to her knees.

"Please, Mirana. Let me see the Oraculum."

Mirana sighs through her own tears. Faced with so proud a woman _begging on her knees_, how can she not relent? "All right, Alice. All right."

She helps her Champion to her feet and, with an arm around her waist, escorts her to the Far South Tower, heart breaking even as she does so, for she knows what they will see.

And she knows it will make no difference at all.

Not in the end.

In fact, it will only make Tarrant's death that much harder to endure. For all of them.

* * *

End of Chapter 2: Scene 1 of 2


	167. Book 5, Unsaid Things, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Two: Unsaid Things  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Perhaps he should have agreed to go with Alice to Mamoreal earlier than scheduled. Tarrant had been surprised – _beyond_ surprised – when her mood had suddenly shifted after meeting with the queen yesterday afternoon. Suddenly, she had been confident. Happy. She had kissed him goodnight and then had opened up his nightshirt to kiss his heart line, his Heart Mark, his scar...

"Everything will be all right," she had sighed in inexplicable and puzzling relief.

Tarrant muses over his wife's sudden change in demeanor, leaning against the wall beside the window in his workshop and watches the scene out on the small arena. Her students battle each other and Tarrant listens as Alice reminds Argur to focus and Sir Silveran to keep his guard up and if Corea thinks _that_ is an adequate block, she's welcome to try it with Alice as her attacker!

Tarrant smiles at his wife's spunk, her moxy, her Muchness, her Alice-ness.

"You'll be needing that," he informs her on a whisper that she cannot hear through the glass pane and across the yard to the small training field beyond. "Don't lose it, Raven."

She had frightened him two days ago. She had frightened him very badly when she had pinned him down and had tried to make _war _rather than love. She had screamed and raged and had refused to leave their room until lunchtime had come and gone. When Alice had finally seemed ready to emerge, he had prepared tea and something to eat... and she had sobbed at the sight of the table set and the teapot steaming... and the fury and misery had begun all over again. Luckily, Tam had been at the Paneshines' again and had been spared the worst of it.

Tarrant had struggled to comfort his wife, to help her get it all out, to move on so that they might enjoy _some_ peace together before...

_Was I this wretchedly miserable? This inconsolable... then?_ He had asked himself that question as he had rocked Alice to sleep in his arms that night. He had thought back through the years to his own grief and loss and...

Yes, he admits, he had dealt with the loss of his clan just as badly. And now he understands why he had not been left alone in his misery. Now he knows why...

"Fa?"

Tarrant jerks upright at the sound of his son's voice and the soft knock on his workshop door.

He drops his right hand – he'd been rubbing the scar again – and turns. "Tam, come in. I have something for you!"

His son carefully pushes open the door, then whistles as he takes in the workshop. "You cleaned!" he exclaims. "Look at this! The door even opens all the way!"

Tarrant giggles as his son demonstrates this wondrous feature again and again until the doorknob complains of dizziness.

"What's the occasion?" his son demands, leaving the door open and kneeling to inspect the space under the tables.

Tarrant gently kicks him in the rear for his insubordination. "What makes you think I need an occasion to straighten up the workshop?"

"Um... maybe because you've never done it before?" Tam suggests with a smirk. It's an Alice-smirk and seeing it on his son's face almost wrenches a sob from the very depths of his being.

_Oh, Alice... my wife, my love... thank you for our son..._

"Fa?"

"Hm? Oh! Yes. Well, there is a first time for everything, or so I've been told." He pauses, frowning briefly, before deciding that the saying sounds far too much like something Alice would say for it to have originated from any other source.

"Fa?" Tam says again, his brows drawn together in an emotion that isn't so much wry and sarcastic as it is puzzled. "Are you all right?"

"What? Yes! Of course. I'm fine." He claps his hands together and rubs his palms against each other. "Now," Tarrant begins with renewed purpose and focus, "I asked you to come by after you finished your studies today because... Ah-ha! Here it is!"

With a flourish, Tarrant pulls his newest creation out from behind an umbrella stand that he keeps on his far worktable for ostrich and peacock plumes. He holds it out to his son, who blinks at it.

"Um..."

"Well?" Tarrant urges him. "Come, come! Try it on!"

"You made me a top hat?" Tam checks, slowly reaching out for it and lifting it to his head.

Tarrant gestures for Tam to spin in a circle and model it. "You'd do better to adjust your tone. That should have been a statement, not a question!"

Coming back around, Tam frowns. "But... I'm only thirteen and..."

Tarrant waves the question aside. "Yes, yes, I realize this is a bit earlier than planned, but I couldn't resist. Especially considering the success I had with your Mam's hat last week. So..." Tarrant takes a deep breath and instructs his son, "Ask yourself a question you would like me to answer."

"Huh?"

"Go on! Go on!"

"Um... all right..." Tam gives him a look that clearly communicates his assessment of his Fa's strange behavior. Tarrant allows that perhaps he _is _acting stranger than usual. Well, but, given the circumstances, he thinks it's appropriate. It's not every day a father gives his son an Answer To His Prayers top hat!

Tam gasps. "What...? How...? What kind of hat is this?" he sputters, taking it off and turning it upside down to peer inside.

Tarrant steps forward and regards the myriad of colored ribbons that he had used to line the inside of the hat. Like Alice's Thinking Cap, each ribbon contains a different thought. Tarrant had spent days wondering what sort of questions his son might want to ask him in the future. Why, that mint green ribbon there contains very clear instructions on how to brew a pot of breakfast tea. And that dark brown ribbon explains about harvesting ginger without getting snapped at. And the cream-colored ribbon instructs him to follow his heart, but not blindly, when he meets someone Special...

This hat, Tarrant believes, is even more of an achievement than Alice's had been. This hat, while not a Father Figure, per se, _does_ contain whatever wisdom Tarrant has gathered over the years and whatever messages he would like to pass on to his son one day... All that is required is for Tam to think of a question or a problem and the ribbon which carries the appropriate response will whisper the answer into his mind.

"Do you like it?" Tarrant asks, trying not to show how nervous he feels. "It's a new invention. I call it an Answer To Your Prayers."

Tam snorts. "That's a great name for it. And it works, too."

"What did you ask?"

The question had been asked out of scientific inquiry... mostly. His son stammers. "Oh, um, well..."

"Never mind," Tarrant interjects on a giggle. "Try another, just to be sure it's working properly."

"All right." Just as Tam lifts the hat, he pauses and asks warily. "Do you want to know what question I'm going to ask?"

"I suppose I can live without knowing," he replies. "Just let me know if the answer is a good fit for it."

"That was a rhyme," Tam points out and, grinning cheekily, places the hat back on his head and very clearly wonders about _something_ of importance. And then he blushes.

Suddenly worried, Tarrant wracks his mind for which messages are blush-worthy...

"I think it's working."

"Are you sure?"

Tam nods and admits. "I asked if you liked it when I pointed out your rhymes."

"And what did I... er, I mean, what did _the hat_ tell you?"

"Er, that you... Um, how you feel about me."

"Ah." Tarrant grins at his son's adolescent embarrassment. "I do, you know," he whispers, sparing his son the mortification of hearing his father say _I love you_ aloud, even with only the doorknob for a witness.

"Um, thanks, Fa. Me, too."

"I know, Tam. I know."

Tam nods and glances away before the moment can become emotional or – to his young mind – awkward. A motion beyond the unscreened window catches his gaze and he grins. Tarrant follows the direction of his son's attention and watches as a sword flips through the air. Alice had just disarmed Sir Silveran... _again._

"What was—" Tam begins to ask and then stops and tenses.

"Yes?" Tarrant asks, feeling his brows twitch with concern.

Frowning, Tam removes his top hat and muses. "That was... weird. I was about to ask why Mam was acting so strange the other day and the hat..."

"What did it tell you?" he forces himself to ask, although he suspects he knows the answer to that.

Tam says, "It told me it's because she misses you, but not to worry because she still... loves me... a lot." For a moment, his son stares into the inside of the top hat. Tarrant stares with him. Waits.

"Fa?"

"Yes, Tamial?"

"I hope that doesn't mean your invention is broken."

Tarrant summons a smile. He feels it stretch his lips just before his son looks up at him, his expression apprehensive.

"Well, perhaps there are still a few kinks... but I'm sure they'll work themselves out soon enough," he reassures him, the words he _ought _to say very nearly garroting him. _The hat is working fine. The answer will make a great deal of sense very soon, I'm afraid..._

Tam grins and offers him back the hat. "Does that mean you need to fix it?"

Tarrant accepts the top hat from his son. "I'll keep an eye on it," he replies. "When it's ready, I'll leave it on the worktable for you."

Tam frowns. "Or you could just give it to me?"

Tarrant reminds himself of how very astute and Alice-y his son can be. "And deny you the opportunity to introduce yourselves properly? I think not!"

Tam rolls his eyes. "Right. Fine." As Tarrant takes a moment to study the assortment of ribbons that make up the hat's lining, Tam admits, "I haven't done my chores yet, so..."

"Yes, it would be best to look after them."

He lifts his gaze and watches his son cross the room toward the door. On the threshold, Tam pauses and, looking back, says, "Thanks for the hat, Fa. It's really... great."

"Ye're welcome, Son."

As he listens to Tam's footsteps in the hall and then at the front door where he puts on his boots before heading outside to check on the chickens, Tarrant gently traces the brim of the hat with his fingers. And then he sets the hat squarely on the worktable, presses his fingers against the scar that now kisses the edge of his Heart Mark, takes a deep breath, and – marshaling himself – decides to see to the foodstuffs exchange even though he wouldn't normally prepare quite so early for it. But, in the coming days, he doubts Alice will feel the inclination to organize it. And he doubts Tam will have the presence of mind to ask the hat for an explanation.

No, in the coming days, Tarrant expects Tamial will want to know _Why._

Luckily, he had prepared that ribbon. Of course, he can't be sure if it will respond when it is prompted to... But, then, again, that _particular _case is not the sort of situation that can be truly tested, only experienced... and endured.

* * *

End of Chapter 2


	168. Book 5, Courting Fate, 1 of 2

_**Warning: This scene features the death of a main character.**___

* * *

Chapter Three: Courting Fate

[Scene 1 of 2]

Tarrant awakens to the feel of his wife's lips on his chest, over his heart, against his scar.

"Alice?" he whispers in the darkness, puzzled.

"Hush," she mouths in not-quite silence. "I'm kissing it better."

He giggles, gathers her in his arms, kisses her, caresses her, makes love to her, all before the sun has risen. They sleep again, wrapped in each other arms, beneath the bed covers and when Tarrant next wakes, it is to a very uncomfortable twinge in his chest.

His eyelids fly open and his gaze moves toward Alice. She is soundly asleep and even drooling a bit on her pillow (poor thing! But it has resigned itself to the soggy treatment by now, he is sure) and he lets out a sigh of relief.

Alice had not felt his alarm at that tiny spike of pain. Alice does not know...

She does not know that his time is nearly up.

He slides gingerly from the bed, pulls on his pajama trousers and shirt, and tip-toes out of the room. He pauses here and there to lean against the wall of the upstairs hallway to catch his breath and let the pains pass as the scar moves, bit by bit, into his heart. Tarrant stops at his son's bedroom door and – careful not to rouse the door knob – pushes it open.

Tamial sleeps on his stomach, sprawled and drooling – just like his Mam – in the bedtime trousers Tarrant had made for him not too long ago.

"I wish I could have given you more..." he murmurs, thinking of the top hat sitting on the worktable downstairs. It seems like such a poor substitute now although, at the time he had conceived it, an Answer To Your Prayers had sounded like a brilliant idea.

Tarrant crosses his son's room in silence and kneels beside the young man's bed. His son...

He studies the sleeping face, the wild rose-blond curls, the skin and hands unstained by hatting chemicals and unscarred by garrotes and knife blades. Their son is the sum total of both himself and Alice... and yet he is perfect in all the ways they are not.

Tarrant's heart strains painfully and he holds his breath. When the stabbing ache passes he lets out a sigh of thanks. He is not ready yet. But he knows he must hurry.

He leans forward and presses a kiss to his son's temple. "May ye be blessed, Tamial Hightopp, Laird of Iplam. An' look after yer Mam. I love ye."

The words are a whisper and he doubts his son can hear them at all... or, if he does, he will think them only a whisper in a dream. Perhaps one that he will forget the instant he wakes. Such is life, Tarrant knows. And such is death.

He retreats back into the hall quietly and closes the door. On the way back to bed and his wife, Tarrant pauses a half dozen times as the scar more than kisses the edge of his heart: it begins to bisect the muscle itself. He is careful to close the bedroom door behind him but he is not careful when he crawls back into bed. He is selfish enough to want to hold his wife, to feel her hold onto him, as the end comes.

The End does not frighten him, for he knows he will be fine. He will go Beyond and he will wait for Alice to join him. Perhaps he will prepare tea. Perhaps she will arrive on a Saturday as she had once been so wont to do...

"Alice," he whispers, pulling her into his arms.

"Hm?" she murmurs sleepily.

"I love you, Alice."

His wife snuggles against his chest just as another shard of pain pierces his chest. He gasps and she pauses, looks up, frowns. "What is it? Tarrant?"

The pain subsides and he smiles, threading his fingers through her hair. Her question summons a swarm of words that get themselves all trussed up in a tangle before he can order them into formation.

Alice leans over him, braces herself on her elbow, and – with one dexterous hand – opens his nightshirt. Her hand smoothes over his chest in the gloaming of just-before-dawn and her gaze drops to his skin.

"I can feel it now," he hears himself whisper.

"It'll be all right," she tells him, faith and determination shining in her eyes. "I... I saw the Oraculum. Everything will be fine. I promise."

He smiles even as his heart stutters, stumbles, and recovers. "Yes. I know. We'll be fine."

Tarrant hisses as the next slice _tears_ through him.

Alice frowns. "It hurts?"

"Only a little."

"It shouldn't. You're fine. You are totally and completely _fine_, Tarrant. I saw... the future and we... Tam is..."

"Alice," he says gently, petting her hair, her cheeks, her neck... her scar. "You saw in the Oraculum what you needed to see."

She shakes her head. "No."

"The path ahead of you will be difficult. I am sorry I cannot walk it with you."

"No. _No!_ You listen to me Tarrant Hightopp! You do not die today. _Not today_!"

He pulls her close. She is stiff in his arms, still fighting for him. And he loves her more than ever for that. He buries his face in her short hair, inhales her scent. It still captivates him, even after all these years.

"Why..." he whispers, "is a raven like a writing desk?"

She gasps, sobs and he tenses with the next wave of heat. It lasts longer than the others, lingers before subsiding. His chest aches as his heart struggles against the scar and its Intent.

"Why, my Alice?" he prompts her when he has enough breath to do so.

She pulls back just far enough to look into his eyes. He does not like the sight of her tears. He would have preferred to see her smile at the end.

"Because they have a son," she answers between deep, dragging breaths. "Because one cannot exist without the other."

His hands spasm, clutching whatever happens to be within the grasp of his fingers: her nightshirt and her hair. "No, Alice. You mustn't follow me. Not yet. Our son... Tam needs you to be strong. _Underland _needs you to be strong..."

"_You_ are my Underland," she reminds him.

And there! She smiles. It is not a happy one as it must push its way through her tears, but it is a smile. He can feel the pain building once again and he does not know if his heart will be able to endure much longer. "Thank you for... my Alice... _Live_, Alice. Tamial—!"

He might have said more, but then again, perhaps not. White-hot not-there-steel shears through him and Tarrant watches his wife's face as his son's name falls from his lips on an uninterrupted sigh. It is fitting, his thinks in this final moment as he feels himself falling away, that their son's name would be his final utterance. For Tamial _is_ tangible proof that the greatest riddle of all time had finally been solved: the riddle of a raven and a writing desk.

* * *

End of Chapter 3: Scene 1 of 2


	169. Book 5, Courting Fate, 2 of 2

_**Warning: Angst.**_

* * *

Chapter Three: Courting Fate

[Scene 2 of 2]

Alice waits. She struggles to do so patiently. She strives to do so silently. She waits for Tarrant to blink, to focus his green eyes on her as he takes his next breath...

He doesn't. He doesn't because he is... he is...

_No!_

The sob, abbreviated and bitten off as it had been sounds too loud in the silence of early morning. Surely, it would have woken Tarrant if he were... if he weren't...

_NO!_

_This is impossible!_

Impossible because the Oraculum had _promised..._ It had _shown..._

_We have a Future!_

Her thoughts revolve around this point, trying to puzzle out the why of this... mistake. This is a mistake! The Oraculum...!

Tarrant's fingers stop gripping her hair and nightshirt. His hands stop pressing against her warmth. His arms stop pulling her closer. Her husband simply... stops.

Alice scrambles to catch his hands before they fall, her fingernails scratching at his skin and she tries to stop the inevitable.

_No! __I'm__ not letting go!_

She does not speak these thoughts aloud because she fears what she will hear: she will hear nothing. No answer, no reply, no argument, no consolation. Nothing. She will hear nothing if she speaks aloud. She cannot bear the thought of enduring silence from him. Tarrant has never been this silent, this still.

She wraps her arms around him and _hauls_ him into her lap, leans over him and presses her lips to his hair. Her grip is strong around his unresisting, unmoving, unbreathing form. She does not think about the lack of light in her husband's eyes. She does not think about the breath that does not move his chest, about the heart that does not beat beneath his scarred Heart Mark.

He is tellingly silent.

But he can't be.

This _can't_be!

The Oraculum...!

Alice squeezes her eyes closed, inhales his scent, sobs.

The Oraculum had shown her precisely what she had needed to believe in order to let him go, in order to give him what he had needed, in order to not waste his final days with anger and futile searches for a cure...

A cure that Mirana had told her wasn't possible. A cure that _could_ have been possible if only Krystoval had offered her a single vial of its blood.

Her hot tears cool as they soak into her husband's hair.

_Why_ hadn't she sought out the jabberwockies? Why hadn't she _begged_ Maevyn and Krystoval to let her Move through Time just once more? She could have gone back to that tunnel, pushed Tarrant out of the way of Masonmark's knife... Or she could have thought to take a small jar of Pain Paste with her... Such a simple thing. Such a small thing yet _so_ consequential! She could have saved him if only...!

She presses closer to him even though he does not hold her. He does not even press back; the gravity that had always drawn them together is gone.

A cure... She would have given anything for a cure, just as she would now give anything for a way to call him back to her, to Tam, to their life and to the future the Oraculum had...!

_Why_ had she allowed that wretched scrap of parchment to sway her? She should have been searching for a cure! She should have pressed Mirana harder... should have _torn_ that library _to pieces_... should have _noticed_ Tarrant was _dying_ long before she had forced him to tell her... should have...!

_Damn you all!_ _All I needed was a single vial of Blood!_

Why had that been denied her? Simply because she shouldn't be mucking about with Time? No one in Underland bloody cares about the bastard! They certainly hadn't noticed when Tarrant had killed him, now had they?

_It doesn't matter,_ she tells her husband, petting his hair with a shaking hand. _Krystoval can't stay away forever. The jabberwockies will be back or I'll seek them out... it doesn't matter..._

Yes, one way or another, she will save him!

Her lips move, but no sound emerges: "Tarrant..."

There is little else she can think.

She has never felt so alone.

Alice shivers, shudders, quakes. She tries to stay silent: she does not want to hear her husband _not _answer her; she does not wish to awaken Tam. She does not want anyone to see Tarrant like this, to _know..._ For if they know, if they _see_, then it will be True!

"I'm not letting you go," she informs him in absolute silence. It's a rash promise, but she doesn't care. "I'll find a way. There _must be_ a way!" Even if she has to hide her husband's body and hunt every corner of Underland for the jabberwockies...!

"I will find a way."

She knows she will have to do it alone. She will have to leave Tam behind, for he must never know that his father is dead. No one must _ever_ know...

Alice shivers... and then shivers again. Frowning, she clenches her fist as yet another chill races up her arm. The sensation disturbs her and she hates it for interrupting her thoughts, her plans... She must make a plan for bringing Tarrant back!

But the icy rush is insistent. Snarling, Alice pulls her left arm out from behind Tarrant's shoulders and glares at her heart line...

Her heart line...

Another wintry wind rolls beneath her skin, up her arm and blusters against her heart. She watches as the dark blue lines that emerge from the tip of her finger lose their color, turn a rather uninspiring shade of gunmetal... and then ash gray.

She shivers again with yet another chilling sensation.

She watches as yet more color is leeched from her heart line. From the tip of her finger to her first knuckle, the bond that Tarrant has always fed with his blood grays beneath her skin.

It grays... _dies_... because _he _has died and...

Alice suddenly understands.

It will take a will stronger than hers to fight the advancing chill, the Death crawling toward her heart. Perhaps, if she hadn't _needed_ Tarrant so much... if she had _lived_ for her son more... Perhaps, _then_, she might be able to survive long enough to find Krystoval, to beg, plead, bargain, _steal!_

But she doubts she will get very far. Not now.

She shudders with yet another icy lick up her bond mark. The grayness advances an almost imperceptible amount.

Alice bites back another wave of misery; there is no hope. Perhaps she should give in. At least she will be _with_ him, wherever he is...

Oh, but he will be horridly disappointed in her! Will he forgive her for leaving their son so easily? So quickly? Will she be able to forgive herself?

Alice pants out a breath. It's either that or scream and she _must _remain silent!

She wraps her arms once more around her husband. She rocks him in her arms which are aching from the strain of holding him close, but she will not let go! She has _promised_ him and promises _matter_ here in Underland! They matter just as much as Intent! The Fates had punished her once for not keeping her Promise and she...!

Alice stops. Freezes. An idea rises through her grief and steals her very breath. A handful of words that Mirana had meant as a comfort – cold as it had been at the time – return to her, recross her mind.

_"If there is a cure, only the Fates know it."_

Mirana had uttered those words, had _given_ Alice the _key_ to saving Tarrant. And even now, it is not too late! It _cannot_ be too late! No one knows he is... and so long as no one knows, Events might be changed, altered, adjusted...!

"A cure..." Alice muses, still breathless, still in silence. One hot, half-mad thought chases another through her head. It is better than thinking about the chilling numbness creeping up her left hand. She does not look at her heart line again. She does not want to _see_...

Alice fists her left hand in her husband's hair and her right in his shirt. She looks up at the ceiling through her tears, away from his unblinking eyes and unshifting chest and unthrumming pulse. Day has broken and sunlight is pouring uninvited in through the bedroom window... like seawater gushing in through a cabin door on a sinking ship.

She is drowning, she realizes. There will be no journey for her: she does not have the strength to hunt the jabberwockies. She does not have the strength to beg. She knows that her heart line is turning to ash beneath her skin. She can feel Tarrant's blood fading, drying, crumbling... And when this Death – _his_ Death – finishes crawling up her arm and reaches her Heart Mark, the heart beneath it will stop beating. She had not lied when she had told Tarrant that a raven cannot exist without its writing desk.

_But_, one utterly mad thought hisses in her ear, _there __**is**__ a way. There is __**always**__ a way. You __**know**__ who to ask. You __**know**__ what to do..._

She closes her eyes and accepts the answer. The only answer that is left.

_The Fates._

Yes. The Fates. Only the Fates would know how to save him. Only the Fates would have the power to grant her this boon. Only the Fates can help her now.

Alice wipes her face clean on her nightshirt sleeve and gently lays her husband back down, arranges him comfortably. She will be back for him. She will bring him back... somehow. This is not the end.

This is _not _The End.

Alice grasps his right hand with her left. She curls against his body – so cool, too cool, too still, too silent – and presses a kiss to his unsmiling cheek, to the corner of his slack lips.

"I love you," she tells him, keeping her eyes tightly shut. "And I'm going to bring you home."

He does not answer, but she tells herself he is smiling. He is waiting. Just as he has always waited for her. And again, she is late.

But she is not _too_ late!

Alice takes a deep breath, gathers her frantic, crazed thoughts and speaks as steadily as possible: "Fates of Underland, heed me, for I seek to Court thee."

Courting Fate...

When Mirana had first mentioned it that day the two of them had sat beside the training field watching Leif and Tarrant spar, Alice had never expected to ever think on it again. She had let the concept fall into the recesses of her mind, into her nearly-forgotten memories.

But she had not forgotten. Not truly. Although she had not remembered in time to stop Death from taking her husband.

_Always late, Alice_, she scolds herself.

Another deep breath and she steadies herself further. A part of her cannot believe that she is doing this, that she is _daring_ this. She had never expected that she would wish to seek Them out!

But she seeks Them now. Krystoval has abandoned her. Mirana has turned away from her. There is no one left _to _seek! Not in the time she has left!

"Fates of Underland... Accept my Suit..." she bids Them, _begs _Them.

Alice holds her breath, not knowing what to expect, not knowing if she is even petitioning Them properly, not caring. If she fails, she will ride immediately to Mamoreal and demand to be shown the correct procedure. Mirana will tell her. Mirana will _have _to tell her. Alice will not give her a choice in the matter. Friend or no.

"Accept my Suit!" she cries.

"Rather impatient, aren't we, dear?" an aged voice warbles. "It takes time to make the connection, you know. And we three are not as young as we used to be."

With a silent gasp, Alice opens her eyes...

And finds herself in a long, wide, black marble hallway. It is dimly lit by a single torch but it is bright enough for Alice to make out three figures standing opposite her. To her left and to her right, the hallway stretches out into near darkness. She can see doors at either ends, but none along the wall of the corridor itself. Iplam is gone. Her home, her room, her bed, her _husband_ are all gone!

Reflexively, Alice reaches for her sword and her right hand curls around the pommel. Startled, she glances down. She is dressed for battle. She takes note of the leather jerkin and the leg guards strapped to her thighs and shins. Even her hands are covered with leather. She spares a thought for her wedding ring – the one she never takes off unless she is fighting – and prays it will find its way back to her later. After all, there is nothing she can do about its absence now.

Alice inspects the borrowed protective gear and, as she regards the unfamiliar trappings, she notices... the heart line is not... she is not...

The chill has stopped.

She is not sure why that is the case and it makes her uneasy.

Alice warily appraises the trio of figures that had not been in her company moments ago, the hallway she had not been standing in, the sparring gear she had not been wearing... Finally, she returns her attention to the creatures sharing the hallway with her.

"You are the Fates of Underland?" she ventures.

"Obviously!" one asserts. Alice wills her eyes to adjust and, squinting, she manages to make out a large, up-right standing turtle with sad eyes.

"And you rather took your time in Courting us!" the next says impatiently. In the light of the torch, Alice sees an elderly sheep with a pair of knitting needles thrust through her wool atop her head.

The third contributes, "I suppose you rather didn't like my method for bringing you here. But it _was_ of my own invention!"

Alice gapes at the third figure – a knight with a wide, kind face and gentle eyes – and remembers...

"I know you. I know all of you."

"Ah, so she does remember!" the turtle gasps, large saltwater tears rolling down his leathery cheeks.

"Yes, we _had_ thought you would have forgotten," the Sheep bleats accusingly.

"Uplandish minds... I realize not everyone can be a Mad March Hare, but I should like to invent a contraption to make your mind more reliable, Champion," the Knight muses aloud. "Perhaps something utilizing a butterfly net?"

Alice regards them. "How is it possible – if you're _really_ the Fates – that I met you when I was a little girl in Underland?"

"Because we _sought_ to meet you, of course!" the Sheep huffs.

"Ridiculous question," the Knight mutters.

The turtle sniffles and steps forward with a slight bow. "I am the Mock Turtle," he intones. "Do you recall my history?"

"Vaguely," Alice replies, as a hazy memory of lobsters and whiting drifts through her mind. She then turns to the Sheep. "I recall rowing a boat for you..."

"Life _is_ but a dream, dear," the elderly ewe acknowledges.

"And _you_," Alice continues, glancing at the Knight. "Always prepared..."

"It's as well to be provided for _everything_," he declares proudly.

Alice looks from the Mock Turtle to the Sheep to the Knight. "Past, Present, and Future?" she summarizes and the Mock Turtle applauds.

"Marvelous! This one's quite quick about the wits!"

"Yes, I can see why we chose you," the ewe agrees.

Alice frowns. "You... chose me?"

"Yes, through a means of my own invention, naturally," the Knight answers.

"But," Alice interrupts, "_I_ chose _you_. Just now."

"Not hardly!" the Sheep declares. "We needn't accept a suitor simply because they offer!"

"And, by the way, your suit was hardly phrased properly," the Mock Turtle informs her gravely. "Why, a proper Courting requires only the finest—!"

"Now, now," the Knight interjects. "The lady here used a method of her own invention. We all agreed that was a quality to be praised!"

The Mock Turtle subsides unhappily at that.

"What is this place?" Alice interjects before the three of them can galumph off on some other tangent or other.

"The Hallowed Halls of Time," the Sheep informs her.

"We would have invited you to have a seat in the parlor," the Mock Turtle apologizes, "but I'm afraid it's a bit of a mess." He glares over the Sheep's knitting needles at the Knight.

"You'll be glad for the device when I'm done!" he assures the Mock Turtle who shakes his head sadly.

Alice clears her throat, drawing the attention of the Fates back to her. "I need your help."

"What a happy coincidence!" the Knight declares, clapping his hands together with delight. "For that is the very thing _we_ wish to discuss with _you_!"

Her heart leaps at the announcement. "Then you'll do it? You'll breathe life back into Tarrant?"

The Mock Turtle sighs. "Well, suppose we did. Do you think that scar would let him make much use of it?"

Before Alice can clarify her request, the Sheep says, "We need you to do something for us, Alice."

She studies the ewe's severe expression and sighs. Bloody hell. Of course nothing is ever simple. Of course she would have to pay for this favor despite all that she has already done for Underland and its citizens. "What is it you want from me?"

"Come, come!" the Knight admonishes her. "This will be a grand adventure!"

Alice sighs tiredly. "I should like to judge that for myself. What must I do?"

After a communicative glance between the three of them, the Mock Turtle says, "A very long time ago, we created the Oraculum..."

Alice grits her teeth at the mention of that misleading and willfully malicious document.

"To help us keep track of Persons of Interest," the Sheep interjects.

The Knight puffs up his chest. "It was—"

"Of your own invention," the Mock Turtle wearily concludes. "Yes. We know."

"But rather than making us _less _busy, it made us more so." The Sheep glares briefly at the Knight before clearing her throat and informing Alice, "We decided to give the Oraculum to an individual worthy of keeping it," the Sheep declares, continuing the tale.

"Of all the ones to Court us, a duchess was deemed the most worthy," the Knight contributes helpfully.

"_The_ Duchess," the Sheep amends.

The Mock Turtle sighs as if expressing the sum total of his long years of existence. "At the time, the Duchess had seemed like a very logical choice. She had a very nice manor house with a library. We had been sure the Oraculum would feel comfortable there."

"Also, as a Duchess, she would be in a position to advise the queens of the Oraculum's predictions," the Sheep interjects with surprising lucidity.

"_And,_" the Knight announces despite an irritated glance from the ewe and a forlorn shake of the head by the turtle, "the Duchess' home is squarely between the territories of the two queens! And everyone knows the best place to be is never at one end or the other but squarely In Between!"

"Unfortunately," the ewe continues, "the Duchess did not follow our instructions."

The turtle sobs, "She keeps the Oraculum locked up in a glass case, separate from its other papery fellows!"

"A travesty!" the Knight agrees most vehemently.

"She uses the Oraculum for her own personal gain," the Sheep bleats rather aggressively. "Ingratiating herself with the Red Queen... Even sent her children to work for the woman! Turns them into whatever creature the queen requests!"

"As if a queen has the _right _to request specific creatures! What in Underland makes her think _she_ is one of us?" the Knight blusters. "Although it _is _a rather ingenious application of ground pepper..."

The Mock Turtle sobs.

Alice attempts to make sense of the situation. "So... you want me to do what? All of this is in the past, is it not?"

"What is the past when we are Here? In the Hallowed Halls of Time?" the Sheep enigmatically muses.

The Mock Turtle is, thankfully, more direct. "Yes, yes, all in _your_ past, Champion of the White Queen."

"We want you to retrieve the Oraculum and deliver it to a more _reliable_ keeper," the Knight declares.

Alice frowns. "But... if all this is in the past... how could _I _possibly do that?"

"Tut tut!" The Knight wags a finger at her. "Have you not been paying attention? We are in the Hallowed Halls of Time!"

Alice is still not sure what that means. "And...?"

"And we will show you which door you need to use. Not to worry!" the Knight says brightly.

"But... if this is the Hall of Time—"

"The _Hallowed Halls_ of Time," the turtle corrects her shortly.

Alice bullies onward, "Then I could use it to Move back through Time and save Tarrant, couldn't I?"

"I'm afraid not," the Sheep bluntly answers.

"Yes," the Knight agrees. "You see, there would be an _extra _you... where there is already a _you_. And that would be quite confusing for everyone! Especially you and especially since you have no memory of seeing another you at any point in your past."

"But," the Mock Turtle sighs dramatically, "several people _do _have memories of you, another you, at a time when you shouldn't have been in Underland, which leads us to believe that it is you we send to fetch the Oraculum and find it a new home."

"I... beg your pardon?"

The Sheep waves a hoof impatiently as if brushing aside a fly. "No pardons, please, Your Majesty."

"Do you accept this task?" the Knight asks with such directness that Alice is taken aback.

"The task of... Moving through Time—"

"No, no!" the Mock Turtle huffs. "You haven't been listening!"

"It's the Uplandish mind," the Knight whispers to the turtle over the knitting needles thrust through the sheep's wool atop her head. "Dreadfully logical and distract-able!"

"You will Step back in Time," the Sheep clarifies.

"How is that different from drinking jabberwocky blood?"

"It's very different!" the Knight replies.

"Indeed. Stepping is quite different from Moving. Did you never learn that in your lessons, child?" the ewe inquires shrewdly.

Alice looks from one pair of eyes to the next and, finding no allies, sighs. "Lessons in Upland are quite different."

"They do at least _lessen_ day by day, do they not?" the turtle checks.

"Er... no. They begin and they end but they do not lessen. If anything, they grow more lengthy over time."

"Well, then they can hardly be called _lessons_, can they?" he mutters.

Alice lifts a hand to rub her temples then stops as she recalls the rough leather covering her fingers. This is not going at all the way she'd expected! She had called out to the Fates for help. And now, in the midst of negotiations they are bickering over semantics!

"Ah... you'd best make up your mind soon, dear. Death waits for no one and Age is quick to catch up to you!" the ewe declares and Alice pauses. The Sheep gestures with a hoof toward Alice's hand and she turns her attention toward it.

Alice pulls off the leather gauntlet on her left hand, afraid of what she will find. She has not felt any chills since arriving here, wherever Here is, but...

She looks down at her left hand and gasps. She then pulls off the gauntlet from her right hand... and gapes.

"What has happened?"

"You are only as young as you feel," the Sheep answers simply.

Alice regards her hands which are now wrinkled and heavily-veined. Her skin has turned papery and has sunk down between the tendons. It hangs loosely around her too-large knuckles.

"Grief has struck down many in their prime," the Knight comments with a sad smile.

"As we are in the Hallowed Halls of Time," the Mock Turtle explains, "you have been a widow for a minute and also a millennium."

"We can see which you prefer," the Knight tells her with a nod to her gnarled hands.

Alice takes a calming breath and then inspects the heart line. Despite the age of her body, the heart line appears to be holding onto its remaining color.

"Champion Alice, dear, you'll need to make a decision soon," the Sheep tells her, deftly cutting through the brewing argument. "Age is not a fellow to be trifled with."

"Shall I help you come up with a method to halt Death in its tracks?" the Knight offers.

"She only needs a strong will to live!" the Mock Turtle replies.

"Which she has not chosen," the Sheep sighs. "The child doesn't know what she wants!"

"Yes, I do!" Alice replies, jumping at the opening. "I want Tarrant back. I want my husband. Surely there must be a way to give him life again, make him healthy and whole and well and without that wretched scar through his heart!"

The three Fates frown at her.

"A purely nonsensical sort of thing to want," the turtle observes.

"I'm afraid you'll have to be more specific, dear."

"Or perhaps start from form and work your way toward function?"

Alice sighs out an irritated breath. "My husband, Tarrant Hightopp—"

"Yes, the Mad Hatter, we know," the Mock Turtle assures her rudely.

Biting back a growl, Alice grasps for patience. "He is... _dead._"

"Our condolences," the Sheep murmurs.

"I _wish_ to undo that," Alice concludes, disregarding the ewe.

"Death?" the Knight clarifies. "You wish to undo Death?" His bushy, gray brows fly toward his frazzled, white hair.

"Yes. Surely, there must be a way?"

"Of course, there is: Life!"

"And where do I find him?" Alice asks.

The three Fates glance at each other, swapping puzzled expressions.

"Life simply _is_," the Sheep finally says. "It's Death that's very conveniently Around the Corner."

"Well, despite his location, I'd rather not invite him to this gathering, if you don't mind," the Mock Turtle sniffs and the Knight nods in agreement.

"Please," Alice says. "If I complete this task for you – if I find the Oraculum and give it to a trustworthy keeper – will you save my husband's life? _Please?_ I just want to be with him again."

The three Fates glance uneasily at each other. Finally, the Knight clears his throat and says, "If you Step into the Past for us... you will be with the Hatter again."

Alice nods, relieved to _finally_ have arrived at an understanding. "Fine. All right. I'll do it. Just show me the way."

As one, they gesture down the long corridor to Alice's right. Alice follows the claw, hoof, and finger with her gaze until she finds herself facing a portal that looks more like a prison door than a portal that had been finely crafted to match the grandiose atmosphere of the hall.

"And where does this lead?" she asks.

When no one answers her – not the melancholy and short-tempered turtle nor the sometimes-stern-yet-often-compassionate sheep nor the overly-helpful and inventive knight – Alice looks back over her shoulder.

The hall is empty except for the single torch burning in its bracket on the wall, halfway between the doors. Alice is tempted to investigate the other portal, but she looks down at her hands. They are the hands of an old woman and she would rather not stand around and let Age catch up with her. Despite the condition of her body, she does not feel any excessive aches in her joints or weariness of sight. If she's going to traipse across Underland looking to steal the Oraculum from the Duchess, then she'd better make sure she doesn't linger here any longer than she already has!

Alice dons her gauntlets and strides toward the door that the Fates had indicated. Her sword is a comforting weight at her side and she briefly checks for... yes, she has her throwing knives and garrote and hunting knife. She is as ready for this adventure as she will ever be.

She tries not to dwell on the fact that she is alone – utterly alone for the first time in twenty years. She tries not to consider why the Fates had seen fit to arm her for battle. She tries not to think about the fact that if she fails, her son will pay the price, for she doesn't believe the Fates will honor their bargain if she does _not_ fulfill her end of it.

___It's__ a simple task_, she tells herself, pausing in front of the horridly large, dark and solid, _forbidding_ door. All Alice must do is locate the Duchess' home, take the Oraculum, and deliver it to Absolem.

One simple series of tasks and she will have her husband back, her family back, her _life_ back.

One simple task.

And with that thought firmly in mind, she reaches out and grasps the rusty handle on the door.

* * *

Notes:

1. The Fates are characters from Lewis Carroll's books. The Mock Turtle is from Alice in Wonderland and the Sheep and the Knight are from Through the Looking Glass. I tried very hard to keep them "in character" as per the books, so if they make no sense, don't blame me.

2. And what's this comment from the Knight about not everyone being a "Mad March Hare", you ask? Well, did you ever wonder why Thackery is always right, but either a little too ahead of his time or whatnot? Well, in OPK, it turns out that March Hares can hear Underland whispering into their twitchy ears. Yes, he's mad... but he Knows what's going on because he can hear the Fates. (^_~)

3. As you may have guessed, this story will attempt to bridge the gap between Carroll's books and Tim Burton's film. And also explain_ why_, if the Oraculum existed and yet was _not_ in the Red Queen's possession, did she still manage to steal the crown from her sister and rise to power.

* * *

End of Chapter 3


	170. Book 5, The Dodo Bird and the Dormouse 1

**_AUTHOR'S NOTE: _**We have entered Carroll-verse of**_ Alice in Wonderland. _**Lewis Carroll's books, Alice in Wonderland and Through the Looking Glass, are both available for free on the Internet at **Literature dot ORG**. They are pretty "fast" reads and I recommend them if you want to really "get" what's going on here. (They will also give the background on the Fates from Chapter 3.)

OK, that's all. Read on.

* * *

Chapter Four: The Dodo Bird and the Dormouse

[Scene 1 of 2]

Uilleam the Dodo Bird squints at the cell door. He tilts his head to the side, stares, sniffs. No, the situation has not changed since he'd last inspected it. Behind him, in the dank shadows of the prison cell, a buzzing snore resonates.

"How can you sleep at a time like this?" he laments, of half a mind to flap over there and give that blasted dormouse a good kick in her stuffy nose.

As expected, she doesn't reply. Not coherently. She continues buzzing sleepy breaths through her well-stuffed nose. Uilleam sighs and slumps down on the hard-packed, earthen floor, careful not to touch the walls or door of the cell. Only a truly evil mind could create such a torture. All in all, he should have expected something like this... although expecting the expected is hardly a worthy task for his considerable intelligence. Which is probably how both he and his cellmate had ended up in this wretched place!

Uilleam, quite honestly, rather enjoys anticipating the _un_expected. So, naturally, when the dormouse had wandered into the Red Queen's Squimberry patch for a bit of a snack and a nap, and when Uilleam had gone looking for her to haul her back to Tulgey Wood, well... It seems quite the foregone conclusion that the both of them would be caught and sentenced to death. It had been so foregone that he had neglected to think much of it. _Un_expected things are so much more interesting to contemplate, you see.

He lets his mind wander over what he hardly expects to happen now: freedom would be an unexpected blessing, he decides. He would never expect the Red Knave to release him. He would never expect the Red Queen to grant him a pardon for wandering through her Squimberry patch.

In fact, as there isn't much that could be considered _more _unexpected, he lets himself imagine the Red Queen's pardon and the Knave escorting him out of this stinking prison. Perhaps song birds will trill an unlikely tune. The quadrille, perhaps? And a dance will make the Knave's feet itch and he will stand on his head and pull off his boots and wag his toes in the sunshine...

"It's a shame you're sleeping," he rumbles at the sleeping dormouse behind him. "I've had the most unexpected thought."

Unexpected yet certainly better than their current situation. Unlikely yet certainly preferable to the ax they will both become intimate but brief acquaintances with in the morning.

"I don't want to die, you know," he announces. "My fascination with unexpected things does not stretch quite _that _far."

A soft snore is the only reply he receives.

He huffs. "You could at least _say_ something. A word of thanks perhaps. I should have let you get caught all on your own!"

The snores stop and, yawning, the dormouse accuses, "They never woulda found me if yah hadn't led 'em right to me. Dodo."

"My name," he informs her for what must be more times than the Red Queen has severed heads in her considerably large collection, "is Uilleam."

"Can't spell it," the dormouse tells him. "So I ain't sayin' it."

"It's hardly _my_ fault you can't spell anything that doesn't start with a snore!"

"Ain't mine, neither." And with that, she rolls over on her bed (which is designated by the bits of straw she had managed to gather) and begins snoring. Again.

Uilleam shakes his great head. Truly, the only energy _that_ mouse has ever expended has been spent procuring a place to rest her utterly useless self. "You have slept your life away," he informs her.

He is not surprised when she doesn't answer. Her agreement is predictable, expected.

He turns back to the door and imagines it opening. He imagines... expects...

… and blinks as something long, slender, and sharp slides between the door and the frame.

How... _unexpected._

Uilleam blinks at the slender protrusion. It gleams in the near-darkness. Wiggles a bit from left to right causing crumbs of bricks and door to shower down onto the ground. Uilleam quickly shuffles backward.

"Mally!" he whispers. "Wake up! Something _odd_ is happening!"

By the sound of her uninterrupted snores, she is not impressed. Uilleam, himself, is reserving his judgment until he sees what this strange object does...

It jerks down with such suddenness that a massive crack appears in the door and the portal crumbles.

Uilleam squawks and retreats quickly toward the back of the cell.

"Ouch! Gerroff me, yah big lug!"

"Mally! Oh, Mally! Thank goodness! You're awake!"

"Of course I'm awake! Yah _stepped_ on me!"

"So sorry, but you'd best not drift off again now or I'll give you more of the same."

With a sigh, Mally sits up, rubs her eyes and says, "All right. Fine. I'm awake. What's the emergency?"

"The door seems to have... crumbled."

"They tend to do that," she observes, not looking impressed.

Uilleam had expected the sarcasm, or something similar from her. What he had _not_ expected had been the sound of a voice that had been neither the Knave's nor the Queen's nor anything that sounds remotely like something a card soldier would be capable of uttering.

"What the—? Bloody—!"

Uilleam watches as a figure stirs in the gaping doorway.

"This..." Their unexpected rescuer reaches out and crumbles a bit more of the door between its fingers. Uilleam winces as the figure brings those fingers to its face and sniffs. "This is... _marzipan?_"

"Yes," he confirms. "Dreadful stuff!"

"Dreadful? It's one of the main ingredients in battenburg! You could have just _eaten _your way out of... whatever this place is!"

"Perhaps _you_ could have!" he replies shortly. "Had _I _done so, I would have found it most disagreeable!"

"Doesn't sit well?" the gloom-shrouded figure muses after a moment.

Uilleam nods and watches as the creature – their rescuer and marzipan-door destroyer – shivers once and then is still again. "And, to answer your other question," he adds thoughtfully, "this place is the Red Queen's prison. So you'd best leave off crumbling it or she'll have your head."

The gray figure – for Uilleam sees that the bipedal creature in the doorway is very Gray, indeed – snorts with derision. "I would very much like to see her try to take it," the rescuer mutters.

"As would I!" Mally pipes up with unexpected enthusiasm.

Uilleam winces as the mouse marches over the assortment of crumbs toward the threshold.

"Springin' us are ye?"

"I suppose I am," the gray figure – a woman, Uilleam decides – says in a wry tone.

"Cheers!"

The figure nods and the action illuminates the face of the woman for a brief moment. But a moment is all the Dodo needs. Uilleam gapes. Here, at the rescue is none other than Alice! He had never expected _Alice_ to come to the rescue! He hadn't expected her to be quite so old, either!

"Alice!" he cries, shocked and thrilled.

On the threshold, the woman looks up, startled.

Now heedless of the crumbs of vile marzipan littering the floor, Uilleam clamors toward her. "Why, it's been so long! You were quite the runner in the Caucus Race! Do you still have the thimble I gave you?"

"I..."

Uilleam raises his brows in expectation.

"I..."

He huffs softly. "Yes, yes. An eye and an eye; there _are_ two of them on most creatures!"

A long moment of silence follows his declaration. The Dodo crosses his feathered arms and taps his clawed toes on the packed-dirt and increasingly marzipan-packed floor.

"I'm afraid you have the wrong Alice."

Uilleam blinks, rears back, retorts, "I should think not!"

"Well, I know so. I don't know anything about a Caucus Race or a thimble."

"But you _are_ an Alice," he counters with a suspicious and evaluating glare.

"At the moment, I certainly seem to be. Now, Mister Dodo Bird—"

"Uilleam," he supplies automatically.

"Uilleam," she continues and his narrow chest puffs up with pride at the accomplishment – _at last, someone in this wretched chamber has used his Proper Name! –_ and then she asks, "who else is here? Being held prisoner, I mean?"

"Oh, I couldn't say," he offers. "Although I think it would be rather unexpected to find very many. Beheadings are done every morning, after tea."

"Ma— Miss Dormouse, would you please locate the exit for us?"

"An' just how woul' yah suggest I do that?" Mally replies in a rather confrontational tone.

"Sniff it out."

"Oh, yes!" Uilleam contributes. "You'll be searching for something that smells fishy. We _are _near the Crimson Sea, after all."

"Humph!" Mally says, but begins sniffing along the corridor.

The new – yet clearly very _old –_ Alice turns toward the next cell door and, as she had done with Uilleam and Mally's cell, applies her sword to the lock mechanism which had been made from something twice as vile as the marzipan: sugar and spice and everything nice.

Uilleam shudders even as he watches the new Alice set to work on cracking open the door. The process is quite interesting to observe from _this perspective._ He watches as the Gray Lady wedges the blade into the crack between the door and frame – wiggling it a bit at times – and then with a heave, pulls downward and the portal gives with a telling shower of crumbs.

"Whose idea was it to construct a prison out of marzipan?" the new Alice asks as Uilleam peers around her at the empty cell she had just revealed.

"A baker's perhaps," Uilleam remarks.

"And are there many bakers?"

"Yes," he replies as she sets to work on the next door. "But none of them are using marzipan at the moment as the Red Queen has declared it unfit for consumption. They all make squimberry tarts now."

"Morning, noon, and night?"

"When else?" Uilleam replies, wondering if he has somehow neglected to notice another part of Day besides morning, noon, and night. Perhaps the sunset and sunrise are counted separately?

As another door crumbles to naught under the new Alice's efforts, Uilleam muses, "Are you hoping to liberate all the cells?"

"Are you suggesting I shouldn't?"

"What? Oh, no... Just curious."

Marzipan crumbs shoot through the air and scatter along the floor as door after door is destroyed. Interestingly enough a wide variety of prisoners are revealed: monkeys and pigs, flamingos and hedgehogs, even several people who appear to be scruffi-fied members of the Red Queen's own court! Uilleam has them all form a disorganized crowd in the hallway.

"Stay together, now! The new Alice is rescuing us!"

"The _new_ Alice?" one former courtier demands. "That one looks rather _old_ if you ask me."

"We didn't," the new Alice replies in a flat tone. With a heave and a grunt, the last prison door crumbles and a white rabbit hops out into the corridor. "And who might you be, sir?" She addresses the quaking prisoner as a shiver visibly runs through her own body.

"Nivens McTwisp," he wheezes nervously.

"A pleasure. Now, Miss Dormouse—"

"Call me Mally."

"Mally, have you found the exit?"

"Of course I have! It's th' only fishy-smellin' door in this place, innit?"

"Let us hope so," the new Alice mutters.

Fascinated, Uilleam can't keep from watching as Alice approaches a very solid-looking door. One of the few that had not been constructed from marzipan. This time, the Gray Lady does something rather _un_expected: rather than raise her sword to the door, she leans down and consults the iron lock.

"She'll not be able to bend its will," a man mutters resentfully. "'Tis made of iron!"

But in the very next moment, the door swings open silently. The new Alice leans over the threshold and checks the hall beyond.

"Come along," she whispers back at them. "And follow me _quietly_."

Escaping, Uilleam muses, sounds so much more exciting and adventurous than it actually is. They creep through the halls of the Castle of Crims and he has to squash the urge to shout and throw his feathered hands in the air and dash for the nearest doorway. They move quickly and quietly when everything inside the dodo is ordering him to _hurry up and get out now!_

The new Alice pauses at each hallway intersection and conducts a thorough inspection before leading them around the corner. From the angle of light that enters through several windows along the way, Uilleam estimates that it is teatime just now... which might explain why the halls are so empty. The Red Queen, it is rumored, is very strict about observing teatime _properly_. He shares this theory with everyone, careful to keep his voice low.

Only once do they encounter an obstacle. At the castle gate, a pair of card soldiers are debating the purpose of the point at the end of their spears and show no signs of reaching a consensus anytime soon.

"Wait here," the Gray Lady tells them and, sheathing her sword, strides out across the castle courtyard to where the pair of guards are arguing.

"Ho, there!" she calls. "What's all this racket?"

The card soldiers snap to attention. Uilleam blinks at yet _another_ unexpected turn of events. He can think of no reason for why the card soldiers would obey an Alice... except that, from her tone of voice, she _expects _them to heed her.

"Apologies, ma'am. We was just discussin'—"

"Yes, you were _discussing_ the point on the end of your spear loudly enough to disturb the queen's teatime! Is that something you want to do?"

"Oh! No, ma'am!"

"I wouldn't think so. Now, hand me your spear Number Ten and I will answer your question."

The card soldier on the right complies with the order.

The Gray Lady regards the weapon. "The point of the spear, gentlemen," she says, "is in the shape of a heart. Did you notice?"

They shake their heads.

"Yes," she continues. "An inverted heart. Now, why would a heart be on the end of a spear, Number Two?"

"Um... because the Red Queen likes hearts?"

"Precisely. And why is it inverted, Number Ten?"

"Er..."

The Gray Lady gives the card soldier a tap on the helmet with the tip of the spear. "Think, man! _Why?_"

The card soldier flounders.

The Gray Lady sighs and sets the spear tip against the card soldier's middle. "Look down, lad. What shape do you see?"

He obeys, as does his counterpart. "Oh! It's a heart! I can see it very clearly from this angle."

"That's quite clever," Card Number Two says. "The enemies of the queen are seein' her mark just before they get a poke in the belly."

"Exactly," Alice says. And then she pokes them.

It all happens so fast that Uilleam – even with his bird eyes – barely catches the flurry of motion. One instant the two card soldiers are looking down, contemplating the spearhead and the next instant, they're both on their backs, out cold. The Gray Lady collects the second spear and waves for Uilleam to lead the others across the courtyard.

"Let's go!" he announces. "Teatime's nearly over!"

_That _gets everyone moving and they dash for the front gates. Uilleam watches as the new Alice tosses the spears into the moat, sighing at the sight of several bobbing heads.

"After this, I expect the Red Queen will increase security," the Gray Lady remarks with a forlorn sigh. "It will be harder than ever to escape that place."

She looks so sad about that that Uilleam feels compelled to pat her on her slumped shoulder. He wishes he could think of something to say, but he finds himself rather confused by the statement. What does increased security matter now that all of them have escaped successfully?

They hurry across the draw bridge and along the road to the castle, through the twisting canyon and into the scraggly, wild forest beyond. At the first crossroads, the Gray Lady stops.

She seems to be preparing herself to make an announcement, but is interrupted.

"Whoever you are, you certainly seemed to know the castle very well," a woman observes. "And you seemed rather chummy with the soldiers, as well!"

Uilleam takes offense at her suspicious tone on the Gray Lady's behalf. Before he can do more than ruffle his feathers, a leather-covered hand rises and gestures for silence.

"I've been a guest of the Red Queen's before," the new Alice replies simply. She then glances around at the wilderness which frames the crossroads, sighs and says, "If I were you, I'd go to Mamoreal. To the White Queen."

"Whatever for? She's hardly a queen anymore."

"Today she isn't," the Gray Lady admits. "But who knows what tomorrow will bring. Fairfarren, all."

Once dismissed, the creatures and former courtiers hardly waste a moment in hurrying off. They scatter like card soldiers in a stiff wind. Uilleam watches them go. When he turns back around, the new Alice is still standing there and the dodo is a little surprised to see that the white rabbit and the dormouse – who is _not _sleeping! – have lingered behind as well.

"Oh! How can I ever _thank you_ for getting me out of that wretched place?" McTwisp bleats with an expressive shudder.

Uilleam nods in agreement. "That rescue was _quite_ unexpected and thoroughly welcome," he contributes.

The Gray Lady considers them for a moment before musing, "I don't suppose you could point me in the direction of the Duchess' home?"

"No..." McTwisp replies, his ears drooping. "I'm afraid the way has rather a lot of directions and merely pointing won't help in the slightest."

"We coul' take yah there, though," Mally offers.

The new Alice nods. "I would appreciate that... but won't it be dangerous for you?"

"No more so than standing around here waiting for the card soldiers to find us!" the white rabbit informs her.

The Gray Lady huffs out a short bark of laughter. "Very well, then. Show me the way, friends."

* * *

End of Chapter 4: Scene 1 of 2


	171. Book 5, The Dodo Bird and the Dormouse 2

_**Chapter Four: The Dodo Bird and the Dormouse**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Alice finds it supremely ironic that it had taken one look for the dodo – Uilleam – to declare her to be Alice when she had been surrounded by doubters upon her return on Griblig Day. She'd had to remind herself that although that day is in her past, it is actually in these creatures' future... That realization had made her pause.

Uilleam had accused her of being Alice and she'd hesitated, deliberated, and finally decided that perhaps it would be best if everyone believed her to be _another_ Alice.

An epiphany had slammed into her as she'd stood there stuttering at the very obviously impatient, blue dodo bird: Alice must not interfere with the coming events; whatever she does here, she must be sure that she does not change these creatures' future; in order to complete this mission, she must do so anonymously!

And so she had made her decision and announced: _"I'm afraid you have the wrong Alice."_

A shiver had rolled up her left arm in the wake of that declaration.

The Wrong Alice.

_Perhaps __**I'm**__ the one who instills doubt and suspicion in them!_ Perhaps she, herself, makes them hesitate to believe in her nineteen-year-old self's destiny as the Right Alice!

The Fates hadn't mentioned anything about that, but it had made perfect sense to Alice. Now, as she follows in Uilleam's wake with Mally dozing on her shoulder, Alice considers the implications and consequences of what she'd done.

She had tried to open the door that the Fates had pointed out to her, but it had been stuck fast. Alice had used her sword then and chopped her way through it... only to have it crumble into bits of stale marzipan at her feet and reveal Uilleam and Mally within a small prison cell. When Alice had looked back over her shoulder, the Hallowed Halls of Time had vanished completely and she had stared down a long corridor lined with other marzipan-made doors.

So, the Fates had directed her to save Uilleam and Mally. Perhaps for this very reason: the dodo is leading her to the Duchess' estate. Mally, thus far, seems rather useless, which is perplexing. Where is the hatpin-sword-swishing brave warrior that Alice had met that Griblig Day?

Perhaps that is something that will become clearer with time, she muses. What could have been more worrisome is the realization that she might have saved people from the Red Queen's prison that _shouldn_'_t_ have been rescued. But, no, Alice had recognized several of the White Queen's future courtiers and then there had been McTwisp, who had quite obviously survived the Red Reign in the future that Alice knows. So, clearly, she had been meant to empty that prison of its occupants.

A shiver dances its way up her arm. They are coming more and more infrequently, but she doesn't doubt that her time here is limited – soon the grayness will creep up her heart line to the Heart Mark. Alice tries not to let that distract her from her task, which she must do while keeping in mind the events she must not interfere with _and_ the things she must – by necessity – do to _ensure_ that future comes about.

It is all horridly confusing and Alice winces at the dull headache that throbs between her temples.

"My condolences," Uilleam remarks.

Alice looks up and catches his sideways glance before he faces forward and along the wooded path once more. "Your condolences?" she echoes blankly.

"Yes, you've a Widow's Peak," he murmurs sympathetically.

Careful not to unseat Mally, Alice raises her right hand to her hairline. "No, I believe you're mistaken, sir."

"I'm not!" he responds tartly. "Only that sort of peakiness comes from a widow's grief, Gray Lady."

Alice says nothing as she supposes there is no way to argue with him. Nor is there any way she could explain that she had begun this endeavor with the aim of returning her husband to life and being a widow no longer.

"Did it happen when you got that scar?" Mally surprises her by asking rather directly. "Was there a battle? Was it the Knave?"

Uilleam and McTwisp eye Alice in what _they_ no doubt believe to be a very circumspect manner. Alice swallows and lifts a hand to her neck.

Yes, the scar.

_Oh, dear Underland!_

Alice had completely forgotten about the scar on her neck!

She barely hears Nivens reprimand the dormouse: "Now, Mally, you mustn't ask those sorts of questions as they remind one of very bad things!"

Alice does not respond; she is a bit busy fighting back the realization that... that...

She had been _fated_ to come here. Suddenly, the odd comments that the Fates had made begin to make a terrible sort of sense:

_"__I can see why we chose you..."_

Yes, they _had_ chosen her, hadn't they? Even though the choice hadn't yet been made, it _must __**be**_ made because, according to the memories of Underlandians like Mally and Uilleam and Nivens, it had _already _been made!

_"Several people __**do**__ have memories of you, another you, at a time when you shouldn't have been in Underland, which leads us to believe that it is you we send to fetch the Oraculum and find it a new home..."_

Yes, it all makes sense now. Alice had been _destined _to come to this time, to interact with these creatures... Which means... if she were _destined_ to do this, then she had also been _destined _to Court Fate... which she'd had no intention of doing until... until...!

_"And you rather took your time in Courting us!"_

Alice gasps, stumbles to a halt on the leaf-strewn dirt road and presses a hand to her eyes. She breathes deeply, but it doesn't keep the dizziness at bay.

The Fates had been _expecting_ her to contact Them, to Court Them. In fact, They had _orchestrated _it!

_"I suppose you rather didn_'_t like my method for bringing you here. But it __**was**__ of my own invention!"_

A method of his own invention...!

"Gray Lady?" Uilleam whispers tentatively.

Gulping breaths, Alice holds up her other hand – thankfully, the heart line is still encased in the gauntlet and hidden under her tunic sleeve – and manages to gasp, "I just need a moment."

"Here," he says quietly, his feathery hands nudging against her thigh. "There's an obliging tree stump here for you to rest upon."

Alice weakly allows the dodo to herd to toward it.

Nivens barks, "Apologize to the Gray Lady, Mallymkun!"

"What for?"

"For that utterly thoughtless remark! Can't you see it's caused our rescuer a great deal of distress?"

"I only asked what you two were _thinkin_'!" the dormouse argues.

"Perhaps we had been," Nivens replies, "but neither one of us would have uttered a word about it!"

"Which makes me braver than _you_," the dormouse insists. "An' I ain't apologizing for it."

"Nor should you," Alice interjects, rallying herself from the terrible knowledge that the Fates had _killed_ Tarrant, had _waited_ for his death, had _known_ that Alice would do anything for his sake, had _expected_ that she would finally Court Them and They would have Their chance to send her into the past to right _Their_ Wrong!

She will be angry later. She will be _furious_... no, _**bey-urious!**_ Later.

Later, she will dwell on the fact that the moment she had told Tarrant her plan for turning the rebels away from warfare... The _heartache_ she had felt from him when he had realized precisely _how_ she would do that...

The scar, she realizes. Her left hand, still at her own throat, tightens a bit until she can feel her loose, wrinkled skin mold around the hardened leather. Tarrant had recognized this scar. He had _known_ what it would mean. He had _known _he would die, that she would travel into the past as his widow...

_Later, Alice!_

She gives herself a sharp shake. Yes, _later,_ she will damn the Fates at Their Plans. Later, she will rage against Them for hurting her husband so deeply, so unforgivably.

Later.

"My apologies for the delay," she says, interrupting a hissed argument between her three guides. "Let us continue."

"Are you quite sure?" Uilleam inquires solicitously, helping her stand.

Alice's legs are a bit wobbly and her head is still spinning, but she nods. "Lead on, kind sir."

With an uncertain glance toward McTwisp who shrugs once, he does.

"By the way," Mally wonders aloud after a few minutes of silence, "how _did_ yah get that door lock to open up for us? The iron one? Back at the prison?"

Alice smirks, relieved at the change of topic. "I gave it a password."

"What's that?"

"It's a secret word that – when used – shows the lock that the speaker is a friend." It had been almost too easy to explain the system to the door, set the password, and then use it. Iron locks, while quite strong, are not as bright as brass ones, obviously.

"Oooh..." Mally replies sounding thoroughly entertained. "So what was the password?"

"It's five words, actually. Which makes it that much harder to guess: Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid."

Nivens stumbles and has to scramble to keep from diving nose-first into the rotting leaves and gravel on the dusty road. "I _beg_ you pardon!" he squeaks.

Uilleam gawks at her.

Mally cackles. "Oh! So yah _are _an Outlander! Although I ain't never heard that turn o' phrase before."

"Haven't you?"

"Nope."

Alice blinks at her stunned compatriots. "Haven't any of you?"

The dodo and the rabbit shake their heads.

"It's the rallying cry of the Resistance!"

"The Resistance?" Uilleam parrots, clearly confused.

"Yes! The Resistance which seeks to return the crown to the White Queen once and for all!" Alice gapes at the lot of them. Is it possible that _this_ is something else that she must address? Is it possible that there _is_ no organized resistance against the Red Queen at this time? She considers informing them that Tarrant Hightopp is the leader... but forces herself to be quiet. If the Resistance hasn't begun yet, then it will do no good at all to claim that it has a leader!

"A Resistance!" Mally sighs happily. "I like the sound o' that!"

"Better than your own snores?" Uilleam asks wryly.

Mally considers her answer for a moment before declaring, "Aye. I like it e'en better than my own snores."

"Callou, callay. Oh, joyous day," the dodo intones.

"Have you ever held a sword, Mally?" Alice asks the dormouse.

Mally giggles. "How could I with 'em bein' so great big an' all and me being so... not!"

Alice smiles. "Then we shall have to find you one that is a _proper_ size."

The dormouse huffs. "I ain't never gonna be a fighter. So just leave off, all right?" And with that, she curls back up on Alice's shoulder and seems to fall asleep out of sheer spite.

Alice sighs.

"Oh, I wouldn't mind her," Nivens comments. "It's just that her size is a touchy subject."

Uilleam concurs. "It's hard being so small. Good for survival, I expect, for hiding. But not good for much of anything _grand_."

"That's ridiculous," Alice snaps. "How's Mally supposed to believe in herself if no one shows her how?"

And in the wake of the guilty silence that follows, Alice sees yet another task before her: Mally's muchness. Somehow, she will have to help Mally become the brave fighter Alice knows she is capable of being. In fact, it is _necessary_ that Mally develop unshakable courage, for she will have to have the fortitude to poke out the Bandersnatch's eye!

Things are so different now, she muses. The Underland that Alice is acquainted with is full of creatures that are stronger, braver, _muchier._

"What's the date today?" she asks suddenly.

"Merride," Nivens replies.

Alice does a bit of mental calculation and... "How long has the Red Queen worn the crown?"

"Just since Horvendush Day last, although she's been intolerable for much longer than that!" Uilleam supplies with a woeful shake of his great head.

"Horvendush Day... That was just a few days ago!" Alice muses, horrified and sickened. If today is Merride, then that means that this – everything she has witnessed – is only the beginning of the horrors that await Underland!

Her mind racing, Alice slows to a halt on the road.

"Gray Lady?" Nivens gently – but nervously – prompts her.

"I've changed my mind, sirs," she answers, thinking of today's date, thinking of the one person who needs help the most; the one person she cannot abandon without _seeing_ first; the one person who _needs _to help Underland – who is _destined _to champion Mirana of Mamoreal and both inspire and encourage Alice to pick up the Vorpal Sword; the one person whom she can trust to retrieve the Oraculum should she fail her task; the one person who is hurting worse than anyone else in Underland today.

"I need to go to Iplam." The sound of her own voice calls her back to the present. Alice blinks and looks from Uilleam to Nivens and then back again. "Take me to see the Hatter."

* * *

Notes:

1. A Widow's Peak refers to the lack of color in someone's face and skin. That is, Alice's grayness. In Underland, people who are grieving suffer from Widow(er)'s Peak, turning gray and aging with their sadness and feeling of aloneness and such. (And, you must admit, losing someone you love very deeply is not the sort of thing that makes you feel young at heart. Not at all. So, all widows and widowers in Underland are old and gray... at least for a time after the death of their spouse. Although I doubt Iracebeth properly mourned her husband's death... In the film she came across a bit pouty, like she'd been forced to give away a favorite toy.)

2. Yes, Alice's heart line is turning to ash. Only an act of will – the Will to Live – can stop the decay, which is why it is _possible_ for one spouse to survive the death of the other... but it is not easy to do. This is also why having children helps – it gives the surviving partner Something to Live For. At the moment, Alice is determined to finish her task and get her husband back which is slowing the decay. This is not a reason to Live, per se, by it _is_ a reason to Fight (which is why her heart line is still turning to ash, just at a slower rate).

* * *

End of Chapter 4


	172. Book 5, The Last Hightopp, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Five: The Last Hightopp**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

Of course, the White Rabbit refuses: "The... _the Hatter? _But... but...! He's gone mad! Completely 'round the bend!"

The dodo protests with surprising tact: "That... is a rather unsettling and... unexpected request, Gray Lady."

"I know," Alice answers them both. In silence, she expands on that simple statement with a more truth than either Nivens or Uilleam could ever suspect her to know:

Yes, Tarrant Hightopp is mad. He's also alone at Iplam, sitting in the ashes of his home, keeping company with the dead: his family and the unfortunate guests at the Maigh... the Maigh where he had nearly been betrothed to some lass out of necessity rather than love...

Alice isn't sure if she is angry with the Fates for sending her to Underland _too late_ to save them... or thankful that they had not forced her to face that choice: save Tarrant's people or selfishly choose her own future with him... and their son.

Yes, if the Jabberwocky had _not_ attacked that day, Tarrant would have performed the Thrice a-Vow with an Outlandish lass, would have had _other_ children... He never would have married Alice. Tamial would not have been born... Unless, of course, Tarrant had later lost his wife... and that is a tragedy Alice would not wish on anyone.

He may not be Alice's husband _yet_ but she will not leave him alone with the ashes of his family. Not unless she has no other choice. It will be risky. She must not reveal her true identity or the fact that she has a heart line... She must not change the future by tinkering too much with the past... She fists her left hand and takes a moment to consider the heart line and its rate of decay. She has time. Time enough for _this._ For _him._

"I know he's mad," she repeats calmly. "And I know my request is unusual. If you'd rather not accompany me, I understand and I thank you for your time and assistance."

"Now, now," Nivens mutters, "there's no sense in thanking us for our time. No one has Time all to themselves, you know."

"Quite," Uilleam agrees. "And as we haven't shown you to the Duchess' house, we haven't been of much assistance to you, either."

"Yah don' wanna be visiting th'Atter," a sleepy voice informs her. "Woul' bite 'is own hand if'n it tried tah feed 'im."

With a sigh, Alice replies, "I won't be swayed. If you won't be coming with me, then I bid you all _fairfarren_."

Nivens twitches and glances at Uilleam whose expression morphs into one of pure stubbornness. "In the spirit of the Unexpected, I shall accompany you," the dodo declares.

"So will I!" Mally announces, not stirring from Alice's shoulder.

Seeing Niven's increasing distress, Alice muses, "There _is _something you could do for me if you'd rather not come to Iplam."

"And what might that be?" he asks in a voice made reedy and thin with stress.

"Do you know Absolem, the Blue Caterpillar?"

"Absolem? Why, of course I do! He's very well-known in these parts."

Alice nods. "I would like you to invite him to accompany you to Mamoreal. I will meet you there as soon as possible."

"And what should I tell him this is concerning? He doesn't take kindly to abandoning his hookah!"

"Take the hookah to Mamoreal for him," she answers, solving the dilemma quite neatly, she thinks. "And you may tell him that it concerns the Oraculum."

"The...? I beg your pardon," McTwisp worriedly interrupts. "Did you say an _oraculum_?"

"No. I said _the_ Oraculum." Alice notes his confusion. Apparently, the Duchess has not let the document's existence become common knowledge. Which makes a great deal of sense: if she had, the Red Queen would have – no doubt – demanded it for herself. Alice consoles the uninformed White Rabbit, "You're right not to know what it is... but you will. Find Absolem and take him to Mamoreal, McTwisp. _Please._"

"Oh... all right." He consents but continues to fret: "This is going to take quite a bit of cajoling, I can tell already!" He sighs and evaluates Alice with his large, pink eyes. "Are you _sure_ that is what you want, Gray Lady?"

"Yes. Do that for me and we shall call our debt even, sir."

"Very well, very well. Fairfarren, all. And don't bother offering me any luck – you'll need it all for yourselves." With one last concerned glance, the White Rabbit hops off down the road and disappears around the bend.

Alice lets out a long breath, suffers another shiver which dances up her left arm, and then pivots to return the way she'd come.

"I find it very unexpected," Uilleam muses, "that you seem to know your way to Iplam, but not to the Duchess' house."

Alice does not have a reply handy to that, so she merely grunts.

"It is also unexpected that no one seems to know who _you_ are and yet _you_ have met the Hatter."

"I have heard of him," she temporizes.

"Hm... And just why would you be seeking him out? If it's a quest you're on, I doubt he'll be of any use to you, Mad with Grief as I imagine he must be."

"He is!" Mally interjects. Alice doesn't bother to check and see if the mouse's eyes are even open as she speaks. "Saw 'im run ol' McTwisp out of Iplam quicker than a strike from a hungry Jubjub! An' all th' rabbit wanted was tah deliver a message from th' White... er, from Mirana o' Mamoreal! She was checkin' up on him, see?" Mally huffs at the memory. "O' course, th'Atter threw _me _out next..."

"Which is why you went off to sulk in the Red Queen's squimberry patch?"

"I don' sulk!" Mally rebuts with an audible pout.

"I'm not surprised to hear you say that, Mallymkun," he sighs out in disappointment.

A soft snore is Mally's reply.

Uilleam shakes his head, his great beak thrusting to and fro with the motion. "Why must dormice always avoid confrontation? It would be much more unexpected for her to argue back."

"Fearlessness is a habit not many take the time to learn," Alice replies softly, suspecting that Mally can hear her perfectly well despite the buzzing snores she performs flawlessly. One of the mouse's paws grips the collar of Alice's jerkin a bit tighter and Alice knows she's right.

She continues, "If our dear dormouse only had a sword – even one scaled to her size – she would be quite fearsome, don't you think? Able to pluck out an eye easily enough – why, you'd never know she was crawling up your vest and neck until it was too late."

"What a perfectly wretched idea!" Uilleam insists with a shudder.

"And the moral of the story," Alice murmurs to him – as if Mally is not eavesdropping on the entire exchange, "is to never underestimate someone of small stature."

Uilleam argues, "With her being so small, an _under_estimation would be a difficult thing to accomplish, indeed!"

Alice sighs but lets it go. Clearly, it takes quite a lot of convincing to persuade _this_ dodo into admitting an error in logic.

The walk back to the crossroads seems longer than it had been on the outset. And when Alice remarks on this, Uilleam startles.

"But of course! The trees and the road hardly want us to arrive _too_ quickly at the Crims Crossroads. Likely they expect us to change our mind and turn back."

Alice huffs. "Brangergain i'tall! I'm going to Iplam, _not_ Crims!"

Following that declaration, she shouldn't be surprised to stride around the next bend and find the crossroads very conveniently laid out before her, but she is. And, eager as Underland seems to be to assist the three of them in escaping the Red Queen's domain, the road to Iplam seems to soar beneath their feet. Alice is thankful for this as an ache begins to throb along her spine, in her hips and knees. Perhaps her body had not been as unaffected by the sudden Aging as she'd thought.

They stop to eat a few berries and woodland mushrooms (which do _not_ make one grow or shrink) and Alice wishes longingly for a decent tea service. Still, she knows this road – she's traveled it often in recent months; once a week, in fact – and expects they'll arrive at Iplam by dawn. Sooner if the road continues to be so very helpful.

She considers the time – _her _time, that is, the time remaining to her – and hopes she will be able to fulfill the Fates' request despite this side-trip. But, she acknowledges, the Fates _had said_ that many citizens of Underland have memories of her... and both Tarrant and Mirana had seemed to believe that he would die, that he _must _die, so that Alice would be persuaded to do what she must. The thread of her logic is thin and barely makes any sense at all to her sleep-deprived and grief-addled mind. But something – some instinct – tells her that this is the path she must take. She must not leave Tarrant alone, not now. Not when he needs _something_ to hold onto so that he might pull himself out of the ruins of tragedy.

"Och! Who gaes thar?"

Alice leaps back as something whistles through the air at her knees.

The March Hare's name is on the tip of her tongue but, luckily, Mally is faster.

"Thackery, yah mad lump!"

"Ar, Mally? Whot ye be doin' a-way up thar?"

"Sleepin' 'til yah started swingin' tha' blasted ladle!"

Alice squints in the darkness at the March Hare who squints back at her, his narrow shoulders quivering with his hare-ish pants. "A Gray Lady, aye? Mae condolences f'r yer loss."

"Thank you," Alice replies, trying not to focus too much on the reminder. "We've... _I've—_" she corrects herself with a thought to Uilleam and Mally, "—come to see the Hatter."

Thackery shakes his head, his scraggly, too-often tugged ears flapping weakly against each other. "Nae, nae, nae!" he insists. "'Tis busy countin' 'is oyster shells!"

Alice lifts Mally from her shoulder and deposits her in the cup of Thackery's wooden ladle.

"Seeing as how we can't see much of anything due to it being long past sunset," Alice explains, "we're going to need some comfortable spots for sleeping. Uilleam, Thackery, if you'd assist our resident expert, Mallymkun?"

"Right!" the dormouse says with shocking authority. "Teh th' north-east, men! Mah nose tells me there's a nice bed o' sleeping grass yonder!"

As the hare and the dodo jump to comply with her order, Alice marvels. It should have been harder to get them to obey a dormouse they seem to be in the habit of discounting. And, in fact, they should have hesitated to obey _Alice_, who is a stranger to them all.

"Assuming authority makes all the difference," she muses to herself and then turns her attention back to the road and the clearing beyond. It's dark, yes, and the moon is half-empty of illumination, but she can see a figure crouching in the midst of the burnt and blackened field. In the darkness, she can't make out his hat or hair or shoulders... he is merely a black form huddled on the darker ground.

Alice does not try to make her steps silent. Of course, he already knows she is approaching. Tarrant Hightopp is no fool; he is crafty like a fox. With that in mind, she stops just beyond the reach of his long arms.

She pauses, watches him, and waits.

"Ge'off mae land," he finally growls on a wisp of breath.

"You'll have to throw me out, Hightopp," she replies, wincing at the sound of his family name formed by her mouth and delivered with a voice made husky with age. It sounds horridly impersonal, but, she reminds herself, this man is _not_ the Hatter – her friend. Nor is he Tarrant – her husband. This man is someone else. Someone she does not know well at all. Someone who has yet to break through his chrysalis and spread his wings. And she must _be_ impersonal – for her own sake and the preservation of what is left of her heart. Also, Tarrant had never spoken to her of a Gray Lady who had bullied her way into Iplam days after his clan had been utterly decimated. _It's best not to make too strong an impression_, she realizes, and, for that, distance is a useful ally.

In response to her announcement, Tarrant pauses in whatever it is he's doing – counting oyster shells, perhaps – and trembles visibly in the dim light of the moon. "Ge'off mae land," he repeats, his voice louder this time and warbling with the force of the fury that rocks his form.

Another shiver races up Alice's left arm, reminds her that there is no time to waste in repeating useless phrases.

"No. You're not to be alone."

He laughs. It is a hollow, grating, frightening sound. "I _am_ alone. _Be gone, trespasser!_"

Alice sighs and debates crouching down beside him. In the end, she decides he's still too volatile for her to risk putting herself at a disadvantage. The night wind stirs and Alice inhales deeply, silently, relishing his scent. He has not bathed in days: his sweat has cooled and turned stale, his clothes are smudged with ash and dust. He does not smell exactly like her husband... but the scent that she remembers – the essence of _him –_ is there, beneath all that unpleasantness and pain.

Thinking of his future – of _their _future – Alice informs him, "You can't stay here forever."

He stands suddenly and Alice struggles not to gasp at the frightening figure he poses in the darkness. His hair is long and matted and his skin glows with pallor and his eyes _burn _from the pitch-black shadows beneath the brim of his hat...

Tarrant Hightopp takes a step toward her, his hands flexing into fists. He is Menace personified and Alice doesn't doubt that the face of his infuriated madness alone had been more than enough to drive away McTwisp and Mally and Thackery (who had quite clearly been standing guard, either to protect Tarrant from interlopers or to protect interlopers from Tarrant). Yes, the face of his madness _is_ frightening, but Alice has never been afraid of this man. She will not allow fear to infuse her in his presence now simply because they are strangers to each other!

Alice steps _toward_ him and says in a very clear tone, "Downal wyth Bluddy Begh Hid."

He twitches at that. His entire body stops, jerks once, and is still.

"You can't stay here, like this, forever, Hightopp," she repeats. And then, softly, insists, "Downal wyth Bluddy Begh Hid."

He inhales sharply, his hands opening and then fisting once more.

Alice reaches for those hands, wraps her gloved fingers around his and tells him, "What happened here was_ not _your fault." He shivers at those words. Before he can rally an argument, Alice reminds him, "_She_ – the Bloody Big Head – did this. And you will make her pay for it. One day, the White Queen will once again wear the crown and _you_ will be the one who makes it possible. _You_, Hightopp."

He shudders and although his breath is stale from days lacking in hygiene, Alice feels a thrill go through her at the sound of his gutteral murmur: "Downal wyth..."

"Downal wyth Bluddy Begh Hid. Say it, Hightopp. From start to finish."

He swallows audibly. "Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid..."

Alice is not surprised by the sound of a hoarse sob erupting from his throat. He sinks to the ground and she follows him, sits with him. She rubs his shoulders and he clings to her – a stranger in a leather jerkin, armed from neck to knee with weapons – and weeps. She could be anyone, Alice knows. Tarrant would not care if she were the Bandersnatch. It is only thanks to the Fates that she – someone who knows him better than anyone else – could be here, now. If Thackery had been more insistent with him or Mally muchier or Uilleam able to see past the end of his proud beak, it would have been one or all of them here, holding Tarrant as he grieves.

But they are not here. Alice sighs into his matted hair and ignores both the aching of her joints and the chill that skitters up her left arm. She holds onto the man who is not her husband but who needs her. She manages to set aside her aches and pains and exhaustion, but the heartache... _That_ is not so easily avoided.

* * *

Notes:

1. Sleeping grass is an actual plant. Seriously. Go on and look it up.

2. In Tim Burton's film, Alice remembers having tea with the Hatter (when she'd come to Underland as a little girl). In the movie, she remembers that the Hatter's hair is short and orange. But, when Tarrant talks about Horvendush Day, his past self has long, auburn hair. I decided that I wanted the tea party to happen first with the death of Tarrant's clan following many years after that. How does that work then with the continuity issue of the Hatter's hair style? Well, when Alice remembers the first tea party, the memory is very hazy and she super-imposes the Tarrant Hightopp she knows in the present because she'd forgotten the details about what he'd looked like in the past. I hope that all makes sense.

3. In OPK, I decided to have the destruction of the Hightopp Clan occur about 6 months before Alice comes to Underland and slays the Jabberwocky. Although, I imagine it's possible that the Red Queen has been beheading people for longer than that. (I found an inconsistency related to this in OPK 2, Chapter 16... which I have edited to flow with this timeline.)

* * *

End of Chapter 5: Scene 1 of 3


	173. Book 5, The Last Hightopp, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Five: The Last Hightopp**_

[Scenes 2 & 3 of 3]

Tarrant wakes with a gasp and a phrase of Outlandish burring from his chapped lips:

"Downal wyth Bluddy Begh Hid!"

"I agree wholeheartedly," a voice Tarrant does not immediately recognize announces. "But first things first."

He turns toward the sound of that voice and twitches back when he discovers an apple held out in front of his nose by a gnarled hand. He sits up, feeling more tired than he had the night before when this old woman had butted and blustered and bossed her way onto his land, had given him an enemy to hate, and had held onto him while he'd cried for all the things he _hadn_'_t_ done. He hadn't saved his family – not one of them. He hadn't saved the fathers from the other clans or their daughters – one of whom would have become his wife. He hadn't found a single body to bury, only shards of blackened bone; oyster shells, Thack had called them and Tarrant both wants and hates to admit that it is easier to think of them as such.

"If you don't eat this blasted apple, after all the sweet talking I had to do to get the tree to give it to me, I'll throw it at your chin, Hightopp."

He takes the apple and his attention focuses on the thin scar spanning the front of her neck. An odd scar, to be sure... on an odd, old woman. A woman so deep within the gray grasp of Widow's Peak that Tarrant cannot even being to guess at the color of her hair or the hue of her eyes beneath her grief.

"Who are you?" he murmurs, mindful of keeping a safe distance between them. Last night he had felt as powerful as one of the Fates... but now he feels his body quaking with muscle spasms. He feels weak, drained. He contemplates the apple in his hand with a brief glance and sighs: he does not have enough energy to even eat the thing.

"Does it matter?" the old woman answers.

"Yes," he decides. "I believe it does."

Her dark eyes watch him from beneath the gray-tinged folds of her drooping eyelids. If he weren't so... shattered, he would have been quite frustrated at continuing to be unable to guess her True age beneath the peakiness. Tiredly he acknowledges that he cannot even recall if he has ever seen her – or a younger version of her – before. But he knows one thing for sure: "Ye're nae an Outlander."

"An' jus' hauw can ye b'sae sure?" she burrs at him without blinking. "Mayhap I am."

He shakes his head. "Ye're a widow, aye. And tha's Outlander-made leathers ye're wearin'... But I d'nae ken whot ye are."

The woman sighs. "I'm an Alice," she says flatly.

"An Alice?"

"From Above. You've met Alices before, surely."

"Only one," he admits. "Although 'twas on twine occasions. An' she was much... golden-er than ye are."

"Younger, you mean," the gray woman says with a wry twist of her bloodless, wrinkled lips. "Say what you mean, Hightopp. And mean what you say."

He feels his brows twitch at the instruction, feeling as if he ought to mind this rather grandmotherly woman. "Are there many Alices?" he asks instead.

"A fair few. But I know the one you met."

"She was rather... muchy for a creature that professed not to think," he observes.

"The practice of thinking... well, one isn't born with the skill fully developed, Hightopp."

He considers that. "In which case, perhaps I was a bit too strict with her."

"I'm sure you'll get a chance to make that right." The old woman's dark eyes drop to the apple still sitting in the cradle of his dusty hand. "Eat."

With a great sigh, he does. He takes in the fact that the small nest he'd taken to collapsing in when he can no longer force himself to search the field for his family's remains had been slightly enlarged. He experiences a flash of memory as he sets his teeth against the freckled apple skin and takes a bite: last night he had curled himself around this wizened old Alice as if she'd been a teapot and he a tea cozy. He remembers waking periodically throughout the night, choking on his own tears and smelling leather and sweat and gray hair. She had smelled alive... but not _too_ alive. If she had smelled young and new and innocent, it probably would have broken him. But as she is now, close to Death but not dead _yet_, she is a comfort rather than a reminder, a regret.

Tarrant watches her reach for a second apple with her right hand. Oddly, she does not pull off the glove on her left hand as proper etiquette dictates. "You've wretched table manners, you know," he observes, gesturing with the bitten apple to her left hand. "Gloves come off at mealtime."

"And were we sitting at a table, you'd be right to reprimand me," she replies.

Ah, yes. But there are no tables. Not a one to be found in all of Iplam. Tarrant knows; he'd looked. In fact, there is _nothing_ to be found here except more... oyster shells. He glances toward the charred wooden box that he'd scavenged from the wreckage of his parents' house. The old woman follows his gaze. He doesn't tell her what's inside and she doesn't inform him that those are _not_ oyster shells... for which he is very thankful.

He forces himself to eat another bite of the apple, but it sticks fast, wedges itself between his tongue and roof of his mouth. Tarrant closes his eyes and despairs: he does not even know _whose_ bones he has found. He does not know how many graves to dig. He cannot even remember their faces. Not properly. So many of the guests who had come to the Iplam Maigh had been acquaintances at best. And the lasses... The lasses...

"I cannae remember their faces," he hears someone choke out.

The old woman is silent so the voice continues: "They came teh mayhap wed me... One would ha'been mae wife. An' I cannae remember their faces. No' a one o' them."

"They were not meant for you," the old Alice says softly but with a strength of conviction that could have been a blade in and of itself.

He coughs around the bite of apple still sitting dry and unchewed in his mouth. "None are meant fer me," he whispers, cringing around the crumbling heart in his chest. His family is dead; his employer has been banished; he had lost days of his life to the madness his Fa had warned him about... It is too late for him now, he knows; it is too late because he is too far gone and he has nothing to offer a wife.

There will be no Thrice a-Vow for Tarrant Hightopp. There will be no companionship. No children. No home.

"Eat that blasted apple and stop feeling sorry for yourself!" the old woman barks.

He startles, nearly dropping the fruit into the soft grass bedding Thackery had no doubt lined the nest with. Tarrant had never thanked him for it. In fact, until now, he hadn't even noticed it. He supposes he'll feel ashamed of himself later. For now, he simply feels numb. Empty. Echoing-ly vacant. In silence, he eats the apple in his hand with impatient, unsavoring bites and tosses the core away. And when he stands and picks up the wooden box, the old woman stands with him.

It takes less time to comb through the burnt and blackened field looking for bones than it had before. The Gray Alice pulls him out of his thoughts whenever he becomes lost in them; a gentle shove is all it takes or even just a sharp shout. Time and time again, he comes back to the here and now with a start and a shake of his head to the echo of "Hightopp!" circling the clearing.

Several times that day, the old woman leaves him alone where he sits, sifting through the dirt and ash with his bare fingers, and returns shortly with bread bowls of stew. He can taste that both had been made from Thackery's recipes but he never sees his old friend. He spares a thought for Mally – he'd shouted at her until she'd run off, he recalls – but cannot bring himself to ask about her.

The day ends with a small grave and the box of not-oyster shells being laid to rest within it. Feeling more lost – more purposeless than ever before – Tarrant unashamedly leans on the old woman's shoulder and lets the screams and tears and fury do what they will. She holds his wrists when he feels like thrashing and hitting something (even himself); she rocks him in her arms when he fears he'll turn himself inside out with the overwhelming force of his grief and regret; she wipes his tears and snot away with a handkerchief and pats his back as he hollers and sobs and chokes.

It is a long, mad night.

And Tarrant Hightopp might not be very familiar with Alices in general, but just before exhaustion drags him away into sleep, he marvels at their courage and fortitude. And he wonders if this Gray Alice could be right: perhaps Alices _do_ grow muchier over time.

He nearly smiles as a memory of a small, golden Alice informs him of the rudeness of making personal remarks. She _had_ been rather muchy, he recalls, despite her later insistence on not thinking. And Tarrant hopes this old Alice is correct about him one day meeting that little Alice again: he thinks he would rather enjoy that.

* * *

Spending the night in a bed made by a Mad March Hare with the stars peeping through the cracks and crevasses overhead and the long arms of Tarrant Hightopp around her had been the most unique torture Alice has ever endured. More often than not, she had let her tears join his. He had not noticed in the dark: her tears had been shed in silence, his had not.

Waking up with his lanky-and-lithe limbs grasping at her had very nearly broken her wide open and spilled her heart out onto the ground. It would have fit neatly into the box with the charred and shattered bits of bones had Alice been willing to surrender it.

"Not yet," she had muttered, rolling away from the last of the Hightopps and stalking off as fast as her aching joints had permitted. She had sweet-talked a gnarled apple tree lurking within the unburnt forest into surrendering two of its fruit and she had tried not to think of Tarrant's face as seen in the light of day. (His skin had been so pale and stained. She had recognized those stains – she had wiped tears from those cheeks only the night before – and had known that in his Mad Grief, the chemicals of his trade had been concentrated in his tears and spilled onto his skin.) Alice had gathered up both apples and had tried not to think of the grayness of grief dulling his clothing and eyes. She had tried not to think about his hair, long and matted and unkempt and utterly devoid of natural color. It would have been white if not for the mercury he had spent years and years hoarding within his body, through touch and breath.

She had stayed by him, had searched the blackened earth for the bones of his kinsmen, his family. Oyster shells, he had muttered time and time again and she'd come to understand what Thackery had meant about counting them. At the end of the day, even thought they'd swept the field twice over, the collection in the box had been woefully small.

He had broken down again after they had closed the earth over that little box. He had broken _open_, poured out his anger and regrets in great bucketfuls of noise and tears, and she had held him. Alice had always wondered how her husband had dealt with this tragedy in the days following it. She had assumed that the familial bond between her husband and the White Queen had begun then: she had assumed that Mirana had been the one to offer him comfort, no matter how superficial or insignificant it may have been in the long run. Alice had even wondered if they had found some sort of escape with each other after that horrible tragedy. She had never thought – not once – that her husband and the queen had been... intimate (not with how nervous Mirana had been on her wedding night! and Alice clearly remembers Tarrant's heartfelt and unrestricted passion... no, he had been no more experienced than she... although he _had _known what he was about!), but she had been a bit jealous that perhaps her friend had been there for the Hatter when she – Alice – could not.

But no. No, Tarrant and Mirana had not... grown closer to each other in that way, following _this_ nightmare. Tarrant had led the queen away from the attack, back to Mamoreal, and then he had turned right around, had come back here, and had run off anyone and everyone who had thought to help him.

Everyone except an old, grayed widow with more guts than sense of self-preservation.

Yes, now Alice knows how Tarrant had managed to survive the crushing desolation. She cannot decide if her presence here is ironic... or a blessing.

The grief, necessary though it had been, had changed him: Tarrant Hightopp now looks even more like a wild-man with his blaze of twig-twisted, orange hair and dirt smudged face and charcoal-stained fingers. Alice regards him now, in the darkness of midnight. Her heart aches for him. This man has lost so much and yet there is so much more he will be required to give. As he is now, Alice knows that will be impossible. _This_ Tarrant Hightopp doesn't have the strength to be a leader, a fighter, a man capable of killing time.

Alice considers the date. The Maigh – the Festival to Welcome Spring – is over. Summer is on its way and, in the coming autumn, Griblig Day and the Right Alice will arrive. At which time, Tarrant will have to be a hero, a champion, a mad hatter, the leader of the currently non-existent revolution.

She sighs and gently pets his forehead and snarled hair. For this specific task, she had removed her left gauntlet. It is too dark to see the heart line, but she can feel that her entire heart-line finger is numb. And the lack of sensation hasn't restricted itself to that area alone: the feeling of nothingness has begun to crawl up her hand to her wrist. No, Alice does not have _months_ to help Tarrant Hightopp. At most, she has _days._

And she has spent two of them already.

"I'm sorry, Tarrant," she whispers in the darkness as he breathes heavily and slowly. He is clearly very deep within the realm of sleep. "I'm so sorry, but you must be ready for what is coming. Your Alice will need you."

Somehow, in the time remaining to her here, Alice must help this man discover his inner strength. She closes her eyes and considers the task the Fates had set her: she still has not liberated the Oraculum from its prison in the Duchess' library and every day that she spends helping Tarrant is one day _not_ spent in the accomplishment of her mission! How overwhelming it is that she must save him _twice:_ from his grief and from the scar that stills his heart!

She lies down with him, cries as the scent of him reminds her of so much love and so much pain and so much... so much that is beyond words. She closes her eyes and tells herself not to think of her husband's death.

"Think of his _life_," she murmurs on a sigh.

The first light of dawn wakes her and, for a moment, she lets herself feel his warmth, smell his stale breath, taste the dust of Iplam from her wrinkled lips.

And then she moves.

She wrenches herself from his arms and shoves him away from her. She's a little slow getting to her feet. Luckily, Tarrant is equally slow opening his eyes. By the time he does, Alice has the point of her sword against the tender skin of his throat.

"Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid," she reminds him as he blinks up at her, confused and groggy. "They're just words, Hightopp. What are you going to _do_ to make them real?"

He opens his mouth, wheezes, clears his throat and tries to wrangle speech with his tongue once more. "I'll fight?"

"Is that question or a statement?" she asks archly.

"I..."

"Can you not _even_ take a sword from an old, gray woman, Hightopp?"

He continues staring up at her looking lost and guileless. She experiences an instant in which the inclination to toss the sword aside and gather him into her arms, soothe him as if he were Tamial just startled awake by a nightmare, nearly overpowers her. But no. _No!_

She tightens her grip around both the pommel of the sword and her emotions.

"Pathetic," she spits at him.

His brows draw together in the most abject expression of betrayal she has ever seen.

Hardening her heart, locking away her soul, she asks him, "If you cannot bring _me_ down, how will you manage to get to the Red Queen?"

He has no answer to that.

"Get up," she sighs, lowering her sword and holding out her hand. He hesitates to take it and she shakes it insistently. "Take it, Hightopp. It's time to see Mally and Thackery and Uilleam. Thank them for looking after us."

For a moment, he doesn't seem to understand her order. But then as it sinks into the silence around them, as it makes itself comprehensible, he nods wearily and finally takes her hand.

Once she has pulled him upright, she hesitates to release him. Tarrant startles when her grip tightens around his wrist. The leather of the gauntlets digs into his skin, Alice is sure, but he must _understand!_

"And after we thank them, you and I have much to do," she tells him.

His too-orange brows twitch. "Whatever do you mean, madam?"

"I mean _this_," she replies lifting the sword by the blade so that the pommel is staring him in his tear-stained and dirt-smudged face. "I mean _revolution_," she continues to his wide-eyed stare. "I mean _Downal wyth Bluddy Behg Hid._"

* * *

End of Chapter 5

* * *

**FAN ART** for this chapter is available by Erminie on DiviantArt, titled "Oyster Shells". Or you can click your way there via the links on my FFnet bio/profile page.


	174. Book 5, The Resistance, 1 of 2

_**Chapter Six: The Resistance  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

"On your feet, Hightopp."

Tarrant manages to pull in a breath and mutters, "Fifteen."

The Gray Lady doesn't comment on the fact that this is the ten-and-fifth time she has said those four words to him, in that precise order and in that exact tone... _today_. The sun had barely risen when she had awakened him by the blade.

Tarrant rolls over onto his knees and, groaning, pushes himself up with the aid of the wooden stave that, miracle of miracles, he still clutches in his hands.

Tarrant sighs and tries his best – and _fails_ wretchedly – _not_ to marvel at how utterly useless he is at this. Once upon a time, he had known how to fight – had won a fair number of scraps with his cousins. But that had been a Long Time Ago. And, in the interim, it seems he has traded one skill for another: war-craft for haberdashery.

And he knows haberdashery will _not_ downal that Bluddy Behg Hid.

He needs this, he knows. Who will depose that despicable monster if he does not? The Gray Lady had been very clear on this: _"You saved the White Queen for naught, Hightopp? Finish the fight!"_

Fight. Yes, yes. He _must _fight!

Yet Knowing that has not made it So. He grits his teeth and considers the silence that presses in on his ears like a scream.

_Why don_'_t you remember this, Hightopp?_ the Gray Alice doesn't ask him.

_Why aren_'_t you trying harder?_ she doesn't demand.

He _should_ try harder, he knows. However will the Bluddy Behg Hid be removed if no one fights her minions? And, in the current state of things, Tarrant doubts any will be brave enough – _mad _enough – to oppose her forces! Yes, this Alice is correct: Underland needs him; the White Queen needs him; the crown _must _be returned! And that will require force: for certain the lothesome, grasping, booly-lickering toadie herself will never relinquish the power that she had _eradicated an entire clan of people to gain._

Yes, he _must_ relearn this. He _must_ **fight!**

And yet it all seems so pointless now; fighting will not bring his Mam back nor his Fa. His aunts and uncles and cousins – and the others whose faces he cannot recall – will also remain quite dead. Fighting _now_, after the worst has occurred... Tarrant tightens his grip on the stave. This lesson is too little, too bloody late.

Too late... and yet something in him whispers that this is only the beginning. But the beginning of _what?_ He fears that Unknown looming in the dark and lonely days ahead. He suspects he will need these skills. The urgency and passion and stubbornness (which might very well be an Alice Trait, he concedes) with which the Gray Alice instructs him has confirmed that the ability she is attempting to hone in him is needful. Will be needful. She had not said as much, but she had not needed to.

One day, he will have to make a choice: freedom or servitude; courage or fear; life or death.

One day, his actions will decide that dilemma.

He shakes his head, turns away from his instructor and takes a deep breath. Tarrant Hightopp knows he is no warrior, not like this widowed, wrinkled and gray woman seems to be. He is a hatter and that is all he has ever wanted to be!

"I'll not allow you to forfeit," she warns him, lifting her staff into position.

He knows that tossing aside his own stave will not grant him a reprieve. The last time he had done that very thing, he had been knocked about the clearing until, desperate for a moment of peace, he had scrambled for it and picked it up again. The pleased smirk on his instructor's wrinkled face had been maddening enough for for him to attempt an assault. He had welcomed the rage, let it infuse him; power his muscles and steel his joints. And then Tarrant had found himself flat on his back, contemplating the sky and his bruised tail bone.

"Madness will not save you," she had sighed. "That way lies defeat. I promise you."

But the Madness is the only strength he has left anymore.

Tarrant twists his hands against the wood grain of the glorified stick that this Uplander who wears Outlander-made leathers had fashioned. He is not sure if he is attempting to snap the stave or wring it into nothing.

"Your enemies will not fight themselves," she reminds him.

He grits his teeth. He _knows_. And the fact that it is _necessary_ that he remember how to fight crushes what few, charred crumbs of his heart remain.

His self-appointed instructor does not ask him if he is rested, ready, resolved to do better.

She merely attacks again.

This time, he counters her assault neatly, strike after strike. He marvels that this whithered, stoop-shouldered, colorless creature can wield such power and skill. She drives him back... back... back...

"Watch your surroundings, Hightopp!" she orders.

She lunges forward.

He parries, ignores her warning, steps back and...!

"Omph!" he announces, staring up at the sky which blurs and swirls as he makes ineffectual gasping motions with his mouth, waiting for a kind breeze to re-inflate his lungs.

The Gray Alice sighs and taps the end of her stave against his booted foot, the heel of which had been caught in the rather vicious jaws of a bit of what must have been a rhododendron bush... this time the week prior.

She says nothing – no chastisements, no jeers, no instructions. She doesn't have to. He knows what he'd done wrong. And Alices, it seems, do not particularly care for repeating themselves aloud. The soft tap on the sole of his boot is an unarticulated _I told you so_ that speaks Loud and Clear. Echoes, even.

_Not good enough_...

Those three words whisper around the charred remains of his ancestral home, condemning him, damning him... And Tarrant Hightopp does not have the strength to deny their truth, not anymore. He rolls onto his side, clutching the stave and pressing the length of it squarely to his forehead, between his eyes, as if the pressure will beat back the clamoring cries of his own conscience.

It doesn't.

_Not good enough!_

He should have done more... saved more people... fought the Jabberwock... He _should __**have...!**_

"Stop," a whisper commands and leather-clad hands rub the arm and shoulder not pressed into the blackened dirt. "Stop, Hightopp."

He wishes he could. He wants to stop. He wants it _all _to Stop.

_Please... Peace..._

He begs but the plea is silent. Or ignored. Within his fevered mind, he cannot be certain he had not spoken aloud. The burning-stinging-sanding sensation of his eyes is rather distracting.

The Gray Lady pulls the stave from his grasp easily – when had he loosened his fingers around it? – and replaces it with herself. And he does not care that she had so easily disarmed him. She smells alive, feels warm, and her croaky voice soothes him with its unfamiliarity:

"Go on," she invites. "Scream it out."

He does, clutching the edges of her thick, leather armor.

And yet, with each sobbing cry and breathless shout, only more of the same seems to crowd in his throat, pushing and shoving and struggling. In cases like these, sleep is his only haven and, throat raw, he relinquishes his hold on the waking world and allows himself to fall away into darkness. If the Gray Lady will not permit him the Madness, then he must take refuge _somewhere_... _here_... in sleep.

Tarrant is not sure how long he sleeps – to his knowledge, he has never had access to his pocket watch in his dreams – but when he opens his eyes again he feels as if he had traveled to some far distant realm and returned... with no memory of the wonders he must have seen, the hats he might have itched to repair, the people he had gleefully riddled. Disappointment is inevitable.

"Yahr frownin' already," Mally accuses by way of greeting. "Sleepin' always makes _me_ feel better..."

"I notice you aren't engaged in that very activity at the moment," he replies, sitting up and taking in his surroundings. It's dark now but it doesn't quite feel like midnight yet. He sits where he had fallen that afternoon and wept against the Gray Lady's jerkin. A small fire had been built nearby and a serving of dinner sits on a rock beside the flames. His stomach seems to have been left behind in his dream wanderings so he ignores the stew-filled half-loaf of bread in favor of speaking directly to the dormouse.

Her reply to his observation is a shrug. "Lately I ain't been spending so much time with my eyes shut. Somethin' th' Gray Lady said a few days back... I reckon it woke me up."

Tarrant huffs out a sarcasm-made laugh. "An' what was that?" Perhaps it will inspire _him_. Underland knows he could certainly _use_ something inspirational.

"She said fearlessness was a habit yah gotta _learn_."

Tarrant blinks at her for a moment, noticing her confident pose, the pride that lifts her little dormouse nose into the air despite the lack of aromatic cheese in the vicinity... "You look to be a good student of it, Mally."

Her tiny chest puffs up at the compliment.

"I, on the other hand..." he murmurs, belatedly wondering where the Gray Alice has gone. He glances around once more, but he and Mally seem to be alone. "Where is...?"

"Helpin' Thackery clean 'is pots'n'pans seein' as how this is th' last o' th' pease porridge."

He lifts his gaze to the bread bowl once more and feels a hollow throb in his gut. "Nine days old?" He checks out of habit rather than any real sense of apprehension.

"Naw. Mayhap five. I think I saw 'im brewing up this batch th' first time I came... er..."

Tarrant sighs. Yes, he remembers the first time Mally had tried to talk to him after... _after..._

"I _am_ sorry I... shouted." Shouting, he suspects, had not been the whole of it nor the worst of it. He cannot remember what had happened clearly, but it's likely there had been some unforgivable stomping and kicking as well. "So sorry, Mally," he lisps.

"It's all right," she replies, her tone strong and true. "I fergive yah."

He knows he doesn't deserve it, but he nods anyway. It is one small weight removed from his shoulders. Relieving himself of it does not make him feel _better_. Nor does it make him _less_ crushed by sorrow. But it _does_ manage to remind him that he is strong enough – for the moment – to bear the other worries and woes.

"Hatter," Mally muses into the silence, correctly enunciating his title for emphasis. It works. She has his undivided attention. "I'm considerin' things that begin with th' letter _M_..."

"Mice?"

"An' men," she continues.

Tarrant struggles to think of a third. His mind feels as if it is swimming in a wordless sea.

"An' th' Resistance," she says when the silence becomes too noticeably full of fire cracklings.

He considers that very carefully for a moment. "Mally, that is not a word that begins with the letter _M_..."

"It does," she insists. "'Afore there can be resistance, there must be mutiny, aye?" She leaps toward him and onto his knee. "Hatter... I've been thinkin' about it... an' the Resistance starts with lots of _Ms_... malice... mayhem... murder... mutiny..."

"And what does it end with?" he asks her, startled by the thought she has put into this singular issue. "More murder. Misforture." _Madness._

She shakes her head. "Miracles. It ends with a miracle," Mally insists. "With a Mad 'Atter."

He sighs. "It won't. I can't... I'm pathetically useless at fighting and—"

"Well, aye, yah're a right sight painful tah watch," she agrees with brutal honesty. "But yah jus' got tah remember tah keep yahr balance... Like this!" She demonstrates by bending her knees, setting her jaw, and clenching her little paws into fists. "An' yah gotta keep yahr guard up, like so!"

Tarrant feels tears sting his eyes as his little friend shows him the very posture his instructor had spent all day trying to teach him, evoke from him, inspire in him. Somehow, the very same lessons that had withered his will had lit a fire in this dormouse!

"Yah can't give up!" she orders him, pointing rather rudely at his no doubt smudged nose. "We've got us a Resistance tah Manage. An' _that_," she declares proudly, "is an _M_ word, too!"

"Those are all terrifyingly good points, Mally," he rasps. Despite that, he doubts that he can be the warrior the Gray Lady is asking him to be. "But I'm just a hatter. And you're just a mouse..."

Mally stomps his kneecap with surprising force. "Shut it, you! I ain't listenin' tah people tellin' me I'm too small tah do what I want! So I'll thank yah tah keep yer judgin' an' opinionin' tah yahrself!"

His apology sticks in his throat and he watches as Mally slides gracefully down his grimy pant leg to the ground.

"I ain't lettin' _you_ let that Bloody Big Head _win_, Hatter!" she informs him. "I'll fight 'er my-self! But yah're lettin'er win o'er my _dead body!_"

Mally marches off, head and tail held high, and he lets her go. Marveling. How is it that one so small is better suited for the fight the Gray Alice is preparing _him_ for? Tarrant closes his eyes and sighs, shamed.

The feeling becomes an unfortunately constant companion. It follows him in through slumber, stalks him in his shadows, stares at him across the clearing. Or perhaps that is merely the tired gaze of the Gray Lady.

This old Alice _is_ stubborn, he must admit. She has developed the skill of Stubbornness into an art, distilled it into a heady brew, honed it into a blade that is razor sharp. The next day's lesson brings a new resolve in her, a straighter spine and a stiffer upper lip.

"Pay attention, Hightopp," she says by way of morning greeting. And then she pokes him and prods him like a wooden, jointed mannequin, positions him and shoves at him to judge his balance.

And then the Tests begin. Holding up her sword, she orders him to focus on the point of it. "Good. Now this blade's your noon position. What's at three o'clock?" she quizzes him.

"Afternoon tea?"

Her wrinkled mouth twitches at the corners and her dark eyes sparkle with humor. "If you answer correctly, I think we can manage that. Now, Hightopp: the three o'clock position. What do you see out of the corner of your eye?"

And so it goes. All day, they knock staves together. She tests his balance even as she periodically demands an inventory of the field, their onlookers, and his obstacles. Despite all his efforts and despite all her insistence that he fling _rocks_ if he must to distract or delay his enemy, today his is no more skillful than he had been the day before. The thrice-times-fifth time he falls the Gray Alice calls a halt and, sighing tiredly, sets aside her weapons, tucks away the stern face of an instructor, and offers him her shoulder... which he leans on. Gratefully.

He does not shout or holler or sob this time. He is too tired for any of that.

"Is there a dormouse watching us from high tea?" he mutters, his eyes closed. "My nose itches."

The peaky widow chuckles. "Very good, Hightopp. You've sniffed her out."

It is such a small thing, but it is the high point of the day and he decides to quit while he's ahead. Slumber is a welcome respite from the expectations of Reality. He crawls into the nest – sneezes twice as the scent of fresh bedding tickles his nose – and curls up. Without a thought for dinner, he sighs out a breath and escapes the heartache and muscle pain and disappointment for a few hours.

* * *

End of Chapter 6: Scene 1 of 2


	175. Book 5, The Resistance, 2 of 2

Yes, you might have heard about the earthquake and tsunami that hit Japan on March 11. My family and I are fine. Thank you so much for thinking of us!

* * *

_**Chapter Six: The Resistance  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

She has never felt so alone.

Alice shivers, hardly noticing the chill that skitters up her arm. Over the last four days, the sensation has become familiar. She no longer wastes her energies fisting her now-completely-numb left hand in response to Death encroaching upon her flesh, crawling up her arm, licking hungrily toward her heart.

There is no point in resisting. The Fates had been right: she does not have the strength required to fight this and win. To survive the death of her Thrice a-Vowed, she must thirst for Life much more than she thirsts for him. But she doesn't.

_"__**You **__are my Underland."_

He is her home.

Her best friend.

Her everything.

There is no _her_ without _him._

Alice tilts her head back, gazes up through the budding tree branches and lets out a long breath. It does nothing to shift the hollowness that yawns wide and dark and frightening beneath her sternum. Since the moment her husband had sighed out his last breath in her arms, she has realized that one cannot _live_ without a beating heart. But one _can_ exist. As trees exist, as a river exists... with mindless purpose.

She surveys the forest around her and then, reluctantly, addresses the bend in the stream where the water pools deeply enough for a bath. A very cold bath, she amends, crouching and testing the water with the bare fingertips of her right hand. No, the water temperature has not improved since the last time she had forced herself to bathe. Her bones had ached from the chill for _hours _afterward. And yet, knowing that this will be the last time does not provide her comfort.

Pulling off her leather armor and tunic and breeches, she splashes into the stream. First she washes her clothing and hangs them from the branches of an obliging Tum Tum tree.

"If you would wave them a bit in the breeze?" Alice requests. "I'd appreciate it."

The trees shifts and sighs and swishes its branches in the weak breeze with a bit more gusto than can be solely the result of the wind.

"Bugger all," Alice sighs, regarding the chilly water and, before she can talk herself out of it, plunges beneath the surface. She comes up for air, gasping and grasping handfuls of sand, which she uses to hurriedly scrub her wrinkled, withered and weary body. She tries not to think about her age, her frailty.

_Everything will be fine. Just get the Oraculum..._

Yes. The Oraculum. That is the _reason_ for her existence here, now. Her _purpose_.

Although she has no intention of checking, she finds herself studying the graying heart line on her arm. From the tip of her finger the gray lines twine up like dying ivy... up over the back of her hand... past her wrist... along her forearm... Four days without Tarrant's living blood infusing the heart line has left a trail of ash-colored markings all the way up her arm. By the end of the day, it will advance to the point of her bony shoulder. And then it will begin its final descent... to her Heart Mark.

Tarrant is no closer to being the man he must become by Griblig Day than he had been upon her arrival here. She thinks of his halfhearted attacks and resigned defense, of his inability to summon the motivation to _care_ about his surroundings or his opponent's strategy...

"You've lost your muchness, Raven," she mutters.

And she does not know how to give it back to him. Not without revealing the future she knows. Not without possibly _changing _that future.

She shivers at the thought. Dear Underland, what will she do if some action – or _in_action! – on her part results in changing the future? Suppose she returns to an empty house? Suppose something she does or says – or does _not _do or does _not _say – results in Tamial Hightopp never being born?

In her rush to save Tarrant, she had not fully considered the ramifications of her actions, of this task. There are so many mistakes she could make... So many things that could go irreparably wrong...

_But you have been here already,_ she insists. _Tarrant recognized the scar... And Mirana knew..._

Yes, things are _meant _to be this way.

As bladder-weakeningly frightening as that thought is... it is _true._

Alice closes her eyes and acknowledges her fear. She accepts the ache that throbs through her entire body at the thought of never again seeing her son, her husband, her home, her family...! She misses Tamial's often-times wry and occasionally cocky grin. She misses her husband's rhymes and giggles. She misses...

_Soon, you'll be home_, she reminds herself. Yes, she will arrive before Tamial wakes up – he will never even know that she had left him, that his father had died. Tamial will awaken to a perfectly _normal _breakfast with buttered bread and milky tea with both his parents sitting beside him at the table and everything will be _fine!_

Alice draws a deep breath, fortifies herself, and ducks beneath the surface of the swirling water again. This time she applies the sand to her hair, scrubbing dried sweat and grime from her scalp. She keeps her eyes closed for this task and tries not to get any water in her ears. So intent is she on this seemingly simple enterprise that the factual statement from the creek bank startles her into nearly leaping out of her skin.

"Tha's a heart line on yahr arm. Yahr a-Vowed."

"Mally," Alice replies, sighing with both relief and reproach. She should have sensed the dormouse's gaze, benevolent though it is. In fact, her performance these days leaves a lot to be desired in many ways. She had never realized how totally Tarrant _completes_ her until...

Careful to keep her chest – and the very distinct Heart Mark upon it – turned away from the mouse, she asks, "Why are you here? Is Hightopp—?"

"The same," the mouse sighs. Yes, he has not been much of a friend to her since Horvendush Day. She had sent Mally to go make peace with him the night before while Alice had helped Thackery scrub out his cooking pots but Mally had stomped her way over to them far too soon and with far too fierce a frown for things to have gone very well. However, Alice is pleased to see that, despite Tarrant's determination to be moodily melancholic and his lack of muchness, Mally has not washed her paws of him.

Shivering from the cold kiss of the breeze on her wet skin, Alice climbs out of the water and steps onto a grassy patch to allow her skin to dry in the sunlight. Above her head, her clothes are still swaying to and fro in the breeze. She reaches out and pats the trunk of the tree in thanks for its unwavering dedication in drying her poorly washed and battered garments.

"Yarh heart line's grayin'," Mally observes from a bit further down the bank.

Still keeping her back to the mouse, Alice nods. "Yes. I noticed."

There's a moment of silence but Alice knows it won't last. This Mally – this furiously curious Mally – is a force to be reckoned with.

"It's 'cause yahr a widow, ain't it?" the mouse muses and Alice doesn't deny it. "Was it an accident?"

_It._ Alice knows what the dormouse is referring to. Not the heart line but the events that had made her a widow. She draws in a deep breath and forces herself to stay standing: she locks her knees and leans a bit more heavily against the obliging Tum Tum tree. "It was Intentional... at the time it was done."

A moment of uncomfortable silence follows. "Well. I hope yah ran the murderin' rotter through!"

She has no reply to that, so she gives none. Alice merely looks up through the still-skeletal canopy at the dimming sky. Night will fall soon and the temperature will drop. Alice hopes the wind manages to dry her bare skin before then.

Behind her, she senses, Mally is still lingering, so there must be something else on her surprisingly active mind. Oh yes, _this_ mouse is not the sleepy creature Alice vaguely recalls from the tea party she had attended as a child. _This_ dormouse is as pouty as she is feisty _and_ contrary _and_ opinionated.

She waits for Mally to speak her mind. The wait isn't a long one.

"'Ow come th'Atter gets tah be the one tah lead the Resistance? I coul' do it!"

For a moment, Alice marvels at how far this mouse – her future friend – has come in only a few days. The creature who had hidden herself from difficulties behind her own closed eyelids is no more. _This_ dormouse, Alice can believe, truly _would_ pluck out the eye of a bandersnatch!

"I've no doubt whatsoever that you could, Mally," Alice readily admits. "But the Hatter needs this. He needs a _purpose._ And he'll need a lieutenant who's always looking out for him." The next words burn in Alice's throat, but she forces herself to say them. She forces herself to relinquish her place at Tarrant's side to the one who is _meant _to be there in the coming months. Oh, how it _hurts_ to not only _know_ but Admit that she has no place beside him here, now. "Can he count on you for that, Mallymkun? Will you look after him?"

"Humph!" she declares and Alice can nearly _see_ her cross her small arms over her little chest. "He shouldn't need _any_ lookin' afteh! What'ee needs is a good, hard kick in the scut!"

"I've tried that," Alice reminds her.

"Well, you ain't tried hard enough!"

Alice bites back a bark of laughter. "And what would you have me do, Mally?"

"Come afteh me!"

"I... beg your pardon?" she chokes out, glancing over her bare shoulder.

Mally's very determined black eyes stare back. "Use one o'is hatpins, mayhap, an' put it tah my throat! He'll fight when he sees _that!_"

Horrified, Alice shakes her head. "No, Mally. Absolutely not."

"But he'll _fight!_" she insists with all the determination of someone who Knows they are Right!

"Yes," Alice concedes. "He'll fight. And then he'll get angry with me for threatening you."

"So we'll tell 'im it was all fake!"

Alice blinks. "Mally. Listen to yourself. _Please._ Would you have Hightopp turn away from you for good?" After the tragedy this man has suffered, Alice doesn't doubt him capable of holding a grudge against anyone who attempts to capitalize on his pain, manipulate his heart...

The dormouse stomps her foot. "What's 'ee good fer now? Eh? Nuthin'!"

"_Don_'_t_!" Alice hisses. "Don't you say that, Mallymkun. EVER." The command doesn't impress the dormouse. Her expression is still scrunched in obstinacy. Alice tries again, "You are making the same error of _him_ that everyone else makes of _you_. How many times has Uilleam – or the others – told you that you're too small to be of much use for anything, too small to mean much to anyone, too small to fight? How often has—!"

"Stop!" the mouse cries, tear springing to her eyes. "Stop it! I _can_ do whatever I want! I _can!_"

"And so can Hightopp. He just needs... time." Time that Alice doesn't have.

Mally opens her mouth, pauses, seems to consider her words, and then says, "Yahr... yahr not stayin' with him? Yah said... yah asked me tah look afteh him..."

"There are things I have to do," Alice admits. "I can't stay much longer." She reaches out with her right hand and checks the state of her tunic and breeches.

_Dry enough_, she thinks and pulls them on. She dresses in her battle leathers and straps her sword to her hip, buckles her knife to her belt and slides her gauntlets on. She hates the fact that she must wear these wretched gloves but it would not do for Tarrant to see her heart line. After all, in the future, his first clue that the Gray Lady is actually _his Alice_, stepped backward in Time, is the wound she asks him to cut into her throat.

Alice closes her eyes, remembering the evening after she had told him her plan in the queen's office. He had been so furious, so resigned, so frightened, so sad, so...

He had known. He had _known_ that helping Alice – giving her this scar – would herald his own death. But knowing what she knows now... Alice realizes that even if she had not asked him to slice open her throat for all to see, that would not have saved him. Even then, Masonmark's scar had already begun its slow, inevitable journey toward her husband's heart.

_All of this was Fated to be,_ she thinks... but finds no comfort in the thought.

"Will..." Alice clears her throat. "Will you look after him, Mally? Believe in him?"

The dormouse sighs. "Aye. I will, Gray Lady. Mayhap if I show him how, one day he'll take a notion tah believe in his-self."

"I expect he will." He must!

Mally rides back to Iplam on Alice's shoulder, unseen by Thackery and Uilleam who both greet Alice warmly – as if they hadn't just spoken to her at lunch.

"Sommat smells edible, Thack!" Mally announces, startling the two fellows. The hare twitches and the dodo fluffs his feathers. Alice smirks as Mally orders herself a bowl of whatever Thackery had made with extra pepper. Thackery stumbles over his own hairy feet to comply and Uilleam gives the mouse a wide berth when she hops down from her perch.

Clearly, things in this quarter, with regards to Mally, have changed.

She glances through the veil made by the trees at the man curled up in the nest tucked beneath one of the few still-standing patches of wall in the field. The studs are little more than charcoal and only bits of paneling still cling to them. More than anything, she wants Tarrant away from this place. He cannot heal here. He can only remember... and regret.

"No change!" Thackery tells her, handing her a bowl, un-peppered.

"There will be," she replies firmly. She remembers how strongly Tarrant had believed in her when she'd come to Underland. She remembers how his passion and persistence had won her over, had made her doubt her own weaknesses, had given her the Idea that perhaps she could be... no, perhaps she _is_ the Right Alice after all. And when Absolem had helped her see that all of this was _real_... She had known right then that she would fight. That she _had_ to fight. That she _could_ fight.

Tarrant had done that for her.

And now she returns the favor.

"He'll be the one to keep us all safe..." she tells the creatures who are listening attentively.

"Aye, he will. I believe it," Mally concurs stubbornly and Alice could not feel more thankful for the show of support. True, Mally does not believe that Tarrant – as he is now – could protect much of anything. But she knows that she must first _believe that he can_ if he is to have a hope of gaining the confidence to do so himself.

Dinner is a quiet affair and Tarrant sleeps through it. As usual. When she joins him in his nest, she takes in the way he clutches at his grubby jacket and curls his knees toward his chest for warmth. He is shivering, she sees. His eyes are tightly closed, as if he is holding onto Sleep by an effort of pure Will. He has lost weight and his hair is more tangled than ever. His face is dirty and his breath as stale as ever.

"We'll get you to Mamoreal," she promises him on a whisper. "Wash this place off of you. Pack your memories away for later." Yes, he needs a respite. Whether he is willing to accept it or not.

She lies down with him and he seeks out her warmth only a moment after she has settled beside him. She grits her teeth and blinks furiously to keep the tears back as this man who has not yet grown into the hatter who will become her husband (but who is _alive!_) nuzzles her hair, sighs against her neck, clutches the trailing edge of her tunic like it is his only link to sanity...

_Tarrant..._

She has to force herself to _not _use the heart line to Call out to him.

_I will finish this task for the Fates. I will find help for you at Mamoreal. And then I will bring you home._

"I promised not to ever let you go. And this will not be the end. I will not let it. You will be home again. I promise."

It is only a whisper, but Alice senses that Underland does not care. A promise is a promise. And here is another one that Alice is now Bound to keep.

* * *

End of Chapter 6


	176. Book 5, The Duchess & the Smiling Cat, 1

_**Chapter Seven: The Duchess and the Smiling Cat  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

The farewell comes as a shock.

"Where... where are you going?" Tarrant asks the Gray Lady. He ignores the unbitten apple in his hand and studies her profile.

"To Mamoreal," she replies slowly, "eventually. I want you to take Thackery and Mally with you and meet me there."

"At... Mamoreal?" he confirms.

"Yes."

He lifts his gaze and studies the battle-torn field that is all that remains of his home.

"No," she says and he startles at the feel of her gauntlet-encased left hand clutching his forearm. "This is not where you need to be now."

He feels his brows draw together and a bubble of Stubborn expand within his chest.

"There is no more you can do for them _here_," she says.

He blinks at her, studies her earnest expression.

"Do not let the Red Queen win. Do not allow her to destroy other homes..."

She says nothing about families and he feels that bubble of Stubborn harden... and then fade away like a misplaced sneeze.

"Go to Mamoreal with Mally and Thack," she whispers. "Uilleam and I will meet you there."

Preparations are made and feet are set onto the road and shoe leather squeaks-groans-grumbles and he moves through it all as if in a dream – and perhaps it _is_ a dream! Yes, yes! Perhaps _now_ he will make that long journey he has sensed doing in his other dreams! Although, those had been dreams had during slumber and this is a Waking Dream and that should make his adventures _much_ easier to recall after the fact!

He muses about hat repairs and cups of tea and riddles and rhymes and his fevered imagination stumbles and stutters as he tries to picture the sights he has yet to see...

But of course: as he hasn't seen them yet he can hardly picture them, can he? That's putting the cutting of the plum pudding before the passing 'round, isn't it? When did his mind begin thinking in such hopelessly backward ways?

He giggles and the sound seems to startle Thackery who trips and bangs into a tree. The sound echoes down the forest lane and calls Tarrant back to himself, back to this place – wherever he is – rather forcefully. Eyes narrowed, he surveys the forest, its trees, the dirt road and his own feet upon it. How had he...? How long had he...? And where are they going?

"Calm down, 'Atter," Mally's voice soothes him as gently as she can considering the amount of jostling his wild glancing about is causing for her on the brim of his hat. She reminds him firmly, "We're on our way tah Mamoreal, followin' the Gray Lady's orders."

Ah, yes. Tarrant vaguely remembers something about Mamoreal and meetings and... was there some other M-word involved?

"Mamoreal, yes, yes," he agrees. "Marvel... meander..."

Although he has found himself on this road, following Thackery's meandering lead, with a dormouse traveling via his hat, a cooking pan in one hand and the still-unbitten apple in the other, he still feels a bit... lost. Puzzlingly lost. Lopsidedly lost. Perhaps if he loses himself completely, the feeling will not seem so disconcerting?

Tarrant struggles to let his mind wander with his feet; walks are excellent exercise for the mind. In fact, he has thought of several riddles worth serious Investigation whilst walking. He strives for that normalcy but instead finds himself wondering why the Gray Lady and the Dodo Bird had insisted on traveling _separately _from himself, Mally and Thackery despite the fact that they are _all_ bound for the same destination! In fact, now that he thinks about it, he can't even hear the pair walking behind him... He blinks as the sun glints off of the small pot Thackery wears on his head, pauses in the middle of the Tulgey Wood road, and turns to look back.

Frowning, he complains, "I don't see them."

"Don't see who?" Mally replies.

He glances up momentarily, as if he has the ability to see through the brim of his hat to the creature perched on the top of it. "The Gray Alice and the Dodo Bird," he replies. "Do you think they've misplaced themselves already?" The road seems easy enough to follow to _him_ but perhaps Gray Ladies and Dodo Birds see things differently... Or perhaps they had succeeded where he had failed in getting themselves lost, in losing themselves...

Mally snorts. "Lost? I wouldn't think so! They ain't _followin_' us tah Mamoreal _directly_."

"Aye!" Thackery agrees. "Ano'her road! E'erone's gotteh make thar auwn path!"

"Thackery," Tarrant objects, "_this _is the way to Mamoreal. If the Gray Lady isn't taking this road, then she's headed toward..." He twitches his chin to the side, feels his eyes narrow, decides to_ not _think of whom lives in the place where the Other road leads. "They're traveling in the wrong direction and...! Not acceptable! Risky! Bluddy Dodo Bird!"

He pivots smartly on his heel – causing the passenger on his hat to squeak with alarm – and begins to jog back the way they'd come but a pair of paws on his jacket tails and hairy hare feet digging into the rutted road stop him from getting very far, very quickly.

"Halt, thar, laddie!" the hare commands, not releasing Tarrant's jacket hem. "Ye heard th' auld bessom; best ge'ye teh th' castle!"

"But they've taken the road to _Crims!_" he argues, wincing even as he says the name of that cursed place.

"Calm _down_, 'Atter," Mally announces. "They ain't goin' back there!"

"... _back?_" He glances up again – and again sees only hat brimage – as he allows Thackery's insistent tugging to pull him a bit further down the empty, dirt road.

"Ar!" she declares. "She didn' tell yah? The Gray Alice busted the dodo and I outta prison!"

Tarrant listens as Mally narrates the daring escape the Gray Alice had orchestrated from the Red Queen's prison. (He had not even known that Mally had been arrested! In fact, she might have been beheaded and he might never have realized... Or perhaps he would have heard days – _weeks! – _after the fact and...!) Through the haze of frenetic guilt, he hears something about Pass Words and Palace Guards and Pokings and...!

He is glad he hadn't been told any of this earlier. The Gray Alice's familiarity with the Red Queen's castle is unsettling. Had he known about this before he'd met the Gray Lady, he would have been quite suspicious of her. He would, very likely, not have trusted her. And he _likes_ trusting her. He wants to believe she is worth the risk of his trust. Trustworthy.

But the Gray Alice seems to know quite a bit about Crims and its castle and its queen... One must, naturally wonder _why_...

Perhaps a bit of round-about will get him the answer to that question!

"If the Gray Alice and Uilleam are _not_ planning to pay a visit to Crims, then where _are_ they going?" he asks after the tale has been told and several rhymes made and ballads sung about the historic event: the end of the Red Queen's marzipan prison.

"Tah see the Duchess," Mally helpfully informs him. Or, rather, the information _would _have been helpful if Tarrant had possessed an inkling of how to interpret it.

"What a strange place to wish to visit..." he muses. "Do you suppose our Gray Alice wishes to learn how to escape the axe-man?" That _is_ the skill for which the ugly duchess is most well-known for. Why, time and time again, she has managed to make herself scarce at the Red Queen's court just when that Bluddy Behg Hid's temper gets the better of her. Which is often. Or so he has heard.

"Do you suppose it's a learnable skill?" he muses, successfully distracted from his woes. "The Gray Alice seems rather well-versed in many skills... Sword-play, Stubbornness..."

"Don't know why she was wantin' tah go there," Mally muses to the universe in general. "Don't know why she changed 'er mind about it when McTwisp told 'er the date, neither."

"She... did not know the date?" he queries, puzzled that a woman so... Commanding of all in her presence would be so remiss as to neglect collecting something so utterly mundane as the date!

"Naw, but she knew _you_. Even knew where yah were, too. Odd, innit?"

"Quite," he agrees, unsettled.

"An' e'en odder... she's still wantin' tah see the Duchess. Fer a chat on self-preservation, yah think?"

Slowly, Tarrant shakes his head. "No... The Gray Lady seemed quite adept already at... such things..."

"So what's she takin' her Stubbornness an'er Sword tah see the Duchess for?"

The dormouse's tone is merely speculating – to pass the time, no doubt – but Tarrant feels a twinge of worry at the words. Yes, why _would_ the Gray Alice be going to the Duchess' house with those _twine_ companions?

"Knave-speak!" Thackery suggests, swishing his ladle though the air wildly.

Tarrant's mouth goes dry. He comes to a halt in the middle of the road again as, bit by bit, the most unbelievable picture begins to form:

A sword...

Battle leathers...

A visit to one of the Red Queen's favorites...

Knave-speak, indeed! Why else would a woman in battle leathers, carrying a sword, be so determined to seek out the Duchess... who is also the sometimes-favorite-confidant of the Red Queen? The Red Queen whom had been so recently re-named Bluddy Behg Hid... The Gray Lady had destroyed the Red Queen's prison, had freed its inmates, had been on her way to see the Duchess next when she had learned of the date... had stopped... had turned around and gone to Iplam to help _him._

And she_ had_ helped him. Quite a bit, he sees now. She had even tried to help him help himself. She had endeavored to teach him to not only survive, but to fight for Just Cause.

Would she have asked him to accompany her to the Duchess' house if he hadn't been so irredeemably useless at battle skills?

Had _that _been the reason why, upon learning the date (which she ought to have known already!) she had sought him out? Had she been hoping she would have an ally against the Duchess? (And Tarrant doesn't believe for _one moment_ that the Dodo Bird will provide any measurable assistance at all in the event of a fight!) Before Tarrant manages to take one more step on the road, he has convinced himself that he has failed the Gray Lady... _is _failing her! She is taking her sword to the Duchess' house to fight and she had tried to train Tarrant so that she might not face whatever dangers await her there alone but she _is _alone – utterly alone! – because Tarrant had not once managed to scrape together enough competence to be a fighter worthy of standing beside her... and... and...!

… and what if _something __**happens**__ to her?_

Tarrant cannot bear the thought. Yes, her knowledge of the Bluddy Behg Hid is suspiciously accurate and, yes, she can probably fight her own battles, but she is the only person who... she was with him when no one else... she had _stayed _even though he had tried to drive her away and she had given him a purpose despite his resistance to it and... _could_ he one day be the one to bring down the Bluddy Behg Hid? He doesn't know... but if he _does_ it will be because of _her_, because of her Belief in him!

How can he let her go on alone in the face of all that she has done for _him?_

"Thackery!" he shouts, blinking himself into _focusing_ on his surroundings again. Standing opposite him and in the process of reaching for Tarrant's jacket sleeve, Thackery stumbles backward at the force of his announcement. "About-face, Thack! Back to the spur!"

Without waiting for the hare to obey, Tarrant pivots on his heel and resumes jogging back the way they'd come, his mind very clear and focused solely on the nearly forgotten trail that leads from the Mamoreal Road to the Duchess' house.

"'Atter! What are ye doin'?" Mally cries, no doubt clutching the ribbon on his hat to keep herself from bouncing right off the brim.

"Goin' teh th' Dunchess's house," he growls. "Teh help th' Gray Lady."

"Help 'er do _what?_" the mouse shouts back.

In all honestly, he is not sure he knows _what_ the Gray Alice is intending to do. He only knows that he must ensure that she is unharmed!

"She'll b' usin' tha' sword, aye?" Thackery summarizes.

"We don't have a sword," Tarrant assesses.

"We have hatpins," Mally observes.

"An' spoons!" Thackery contributes, beating the wooden ladle against the pot he's still wearing on his head.

Tarrant feels his lips stretch into a wry grin. "Hatpins an' spoons," he summarizes. "Pots an' pans..."

Well, the Gray Alice had told him just yesterday to fight with whatever is at hand. It looks like _this_ day could very well bring about a practical application of that very theory!

* * *

Notes:

Tarrant thinks "putting the cutting of the plum pudding before the passing 'round" the same way we'd say "putting the cart before the horse." In Through the Looking Glass, Alice learns that she has to pass the pudding around before cutting it, as things are contrary in Underland.

* * *

End of Chapter 7: Scene 1 of 2


	177. Book 5, The Duchess & the Smiling Cat, 2

_**Chapter Seven: The Duchess and the Smiling Cat  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

"Hush!" the Gray Lady hisses, rather rudely pulling Uilleam off the road and behind a bit of accommodating shrubbery beside the gates of the Duchess' house.

"Hush? Whatever for?" he muses and the peaky widow clamps a heavy, leather-clad hand over his beak. "Should we not announce ourselves?" he manages to mutter. "It's the expected thing to do, you know."

"I know," she whispers. "Stay quiet."

Uilleam gives himself a shake as she removes her grip from his beak. He blinks at her. Watches as her hands ghost over the various knives posted about her person. He clears his throat and summarizes, "This... is not to be a friendly visit, then?"

The Gray Alice snorts. "Well done, Uilleam."

"I'll preen later," he declares. "For now, however, I would very much like to know what it is you're planning to do here."

She glances away from the grand estate for a moment and studies him. "If I tell you..."

"Yes?"

She smirks. "You'll have to help me."

He ruffles his feathers at the ultimatum. Rather unexpected, that! "Well. That hardly seems fair."

She grunts softly and returns her attention to the house. He trails along behind her as she begins to circle the perimeter, staying low behind the hedgery and stone walls.

"Gray Lady," he whispers, "are you _quite_ sure it wouldn't be more... _prudent_ to introduce ourselves? I've heard tales of mome raths that she keeps as guard pigs and—"

The Gray Alice pauses and turns toward him. "Uilleam, I appreciate your guidance in bringing me here. But now, I ask that you either kindly shut up or continue on your way to Mamoreal without me."

"Oh! Oh, oh! Well, I simply couldn't do that!"

"Which one," she mutters. "And you had better not say _either._"

Well, with _that _look in her eyes, he wouldn't dare! He swallows and very deliberately does not say another word as he picks his way through the winter debris of soggy sticks and mulched leaves to her side. He pointedly – and silently! – stares her in the eyes and she nods once before turning back to her survey of the estate's exterior.

Uilleam – although he had known the way here – had never actually _seen_ the Duchess' house before now and he is rather surprised by its grandness. He studies the rows and columns of arched windows with their carved and whitewashed window sills, the wrought iron detailing that crawls like an unexpectedly well-ordered line of spiders up the nooks and corners up to the steep, shingled roof. The entire structure is gray, nearly as gray as the old Alice, and he can't help but think the pair of them are well-matched.

"Bigger..." Uilleam startles to hear the Gray Alice's mutter.

"Bigger than...?" he prompts very softly.

She sighs out an angry breath. "Bigger than I expected. Or remember... I was here once, long ago." Her eyes narrow until her wrinkled eyelids seem to conceal them completely. "It seems she's benefited quite comfortably from the Oraculum."

"Oraculum?" he – despite being a dodo – parrots.

She nods.

"You've mentioned that before," he notes. "But you neglected to say what it _is,_ precisely."

"I didn't neglect," she murmurs, once more moving along the hedgery, still studying the manor house and its many, many large windows. "But, if you'd like to see it, I'll show it to you... after I've safely stolen it."

Uilleam bites back a squawk. _Steal?_ Oh, dear, oh dear! What has he gotten himself into now? Another _highly_ unexpected situation, that's what!

"Uilleam," the Gray Lady hisses. He looks up and watches her shiver once, from left to right, and then her eyes harden with a strength of purpose he knows _no _dodo would dare refute. "Follow me."

From watching her train the Hatter, Uilleam knows this old woman could pluck every blue feather from his body with ease should he defy her. He shudders and shuffles closer, choosing to keep his plumage. "This is _most _unexpected, Gray Lady," he protests weakly. And while he rather enjoys _contemplatin_gunexpected things, he has very recently discovered that he does not actually enjoy their manifestations!

"I know," she replies, a look of regret reforming the creases on her peaky face. "But Hightopp wasn't ready and I can't put this off any longer and..." She glances at Uilleam and confesses on a soft croak, "I don't want to do this alone."

His dodo's heart may be small, but it swells with warmth at her admission. "Then I shall _unexpectedly_ assist you, madam. Willingly."

Her thin lips lift into a rare smile. "Thank you, Uilleam."

"My pleasure."

Her brows lift in doubt, but she merely turns back to the estate, examines the rear face of the great house and muses, "Now... thus far, I've only seen movement in the kitchen and in one room upstairs, so—"

Uilleam looks up and the Gray Alice abruptly quiets as the sound of red-painted metal armor clinking-and-clanking approaches. She leans a bit over the top of the hedges and, unwilling to be left out, Uilleam does likewise. They watch as a dozen Red Knights gallop up the wide, curving drive to the Duchess' house, inverted-heart-tipped spears in hand.

"Well! Rather unexpected!" he mutters and the old Alice places a hand on his narrow shoulder to remind him of the importance of silence. And it's a good thing she _had _reminded him, otherwise he very likely would have screeched and fled at the sight of the Red Knave trotting onto the Duchess' property on his Death Stallion. Uilleam flinches back as the Knave pauses at the front gate and, with a sweeping gesture, directs half of the soldiers off the property.

"Keep a lookout for the Bandersnatch. Her Majesty demands its capture _this time_," the man growls in a tone that very clearly threatens Dire Things should the card soldiers fail their appointed task... again. Six of the Red Knights startle and pivot smartly before charging off, spears at the ready, down the forest road again.

The Dodo Bird feels himself quake in his hiding place as the Knave turns his dark gaze toward the manor house and, with a nudge from his knee, commands the Death Stallion to approach. The pair make their way toward the manor, looking as if they own the place.

And Uilleam is _still _glad for the Gray Lady's hand on his shoulder when, a moment after the Red Knave and his hellish mount have disappeared around the front of the house, the Knave's shout echoes through the clearing:

"Open this door, Duchess! You and I have business to discuss!"

"Oh, my. I don't think _his _visit is very friendly, either," Uilleam frets.

The Gray Alice merely smiles.

The sound of running footsteps from within the house moves along what must be a hall upstairs and then thunders down carpeted steps.

The Knave pounds impatiently on the door. "Open this door, or we shall turn it to splinters!"

The running footsteps hurtle along the first floor. "Cook! _Cook!_" the voice of an older woman shrieks with restrained panic. "_Open the door!_"

"Ain't my job," Uilleam hears the cook protest mightily through one of the open kitchen windows. When a door slams open – presumably the kitchen door – the cook says loudly, "Where's 'at frog footman at, eh? Th' one ye're trainin' up fer her Majesty?"

"Bother-of-a-nation," the Duchess says in a tone that usually accompanies the ineffectual and nervous wringing of hands. "I sent him on yesterday!"

There's the sound of something – perhaps a pepper mill – being slammed down. "Fine!" the cook barks, stomping toward the door just as the Knave promises his final threat: "This is your _last warning_, Duchess!"

The cook screams at her employer, "An' I s'pose yah wan' _tea_, too!"

"Yes, that would be acceptable!" the Duchess shrieks and then pounds back down the hall, past the front door and up the stairs to the second floor.

Beside him, the Gray Alice clamps her other hand over her mouth but he can hear her gigglish snorts escape through her nose. He raises his brows at her in inquiry and, seeing his expression, she murmurs, "Well, _some_ things haven't changed."

The sound of the front door slamming open interrupts Uilleam's response to that.

"Well?" the cook shouts at the Knave. "Are yah comin' in 'r ain't yah?"

"With such a warm welcome, how could I refuse" is the oily-toned response.

The Gray Alice shakes Uilleam's shoulder. "Come on," she murmurs, climbing over the low wall and – staying low – dashing for the wall beneath the open kitchen window. Uilleam, glances left, right, and above before scrambling after her. He races as fast as his spindly bird legs can carry him across the lawn and, in his haste, slams into the side of the house with a choked screech.

"Shhh," the old Alice reminds him as the cook stomps up the stairs, shouting at the Knave, "We wasn't expectin' nobody so there ain't any tea!"

"Now, I'm sure you'll be able to brew up some, won't you?" the Red Knave replies.

"Humph! Won't be rushin' on _yer_ account!"

He chuckles darkly.

"Quickly, Uilleam. Through the window," the Gray Alice commands, boosting him up without further warning.

"What—? Ack! Oomph!" he declares, landing in a bucket of potato peelings on the other side of the window sill. "Oh, _spuds_," he swears, flopping out of the wooden tub and onto the quite-possibly-_never_ scrubbed stone floor. He looks up as the Gray Alice hoists herself up into the open window and watches – horrified – as the air above her head suddenly swirls with an aqua-gray mist.

"Well, well, well. Now, what have we here?" A wide, toothy grin splits the air.

While Uilleam clutches his vest and wonders if he's experiencing heart failure – _they_'_ve been caught out!_ – the old Alice merely scowls up at the mist as she somersaults into the kitchen, clipping the bucket of peelings with her heel but, thankfully, the misstep does not have enough force to tip it over.

"Cheshire Cat," she greets. "I was wondering if you were still allying yourself with these fumptwats."

"Oh, language, madam!" he purrs, his glowing eyes and furry face appearing, a sure sign that the old Alice has intrigued him. "And how is it that you know of me, and yet _I _do not know of _you_?"

She smirks and arches a brow. "Perhaps you've become too complacent, Cat?"

"Hm..." the Cheshire Cat considers this as Uilleam tries – and fails – to decide if he ought to be panicking.

"Despite that," the Cat continues, "I am not _so _unobservant as to have missed your declaration to _steal_ the Duchess' Oraculum."

The Gray Alice straightens and _glares_ back at the cat face still hovering in the air. "The Oraculum is the property of the Fates of Underland. _Not_ the Duchess."

"And yet you – who are most assuredly _not_ one of the Fates – are determined to liberate it. How interesting..."

"Cheshire Cat, listen very carefully to what I am about to say," she bids him and Uilleam intends to give her his full attention, but at that _exact _moment an upstairs door is banged open and the cook shouts, "The Knave of Hearts, Ilosovich Stayne, is 'ere ta see yah, Duchess!"

"Well let him in!" the Duchess screeches in reply.

"... by the Fates." Uilleam turns back to his comrade in arms and hears only the last bit of what the old Alice had whispered to the smiling cat. "Times are changing and you'd be wise to remove yourself from politics, Cheshire Cat."

"I never get involved in politics," he purrs.

"Oh? Is that why you never told anyone that the Red Queen would send the Jabberwocky to Iplam? Is that why you left the Hightopps and their guests to their fate? Is that why you _gave_ the Crown of Underland to that Bloody Big Head?"

"Just what are you suggesting, Widow Woman?"

"I think you already know what it is I'm suggesting, Chess. Why is the Knave here?" The question, Uilleam realizes, is rhetorical. The old Alice arches a brow at the Cat in a silent dare for him to deny it.

"Very well," he drawls in a bored tone. "I _do _have my suspicions on that front, but I fail to see why I should permit _you_ to take the Oraculum for yourself."

"It is not for me," the old Alice replies as Uilleam swings his beak toward the ceiling and the heavy footsteps of the cook thudding ever closer to the top of the stairs. "It is for the White Queen. Tell me, Cat, do you believe you will fare any better under the Red Queen's rule?"

"It matters not to me," he drawls. "Nor to anyone else with Evaporating Skills."

The widow grins in triumph. "Then it shouldn't matter _who _has the Oraculum, should it?"

The Cat gazes at her appraisingly.

Uilleam twitches with each stomping step as the cook marches down the stairs and toward the kitchen.

"Well argued, Widow," the Cheshire Cat concludes, looking rather entertained. "But I still fail to see what is in it for _me_ to let you get away with your planned theft."

The old Alice leans in closer, her voice lowers until Uilleam can barely make out her words over the thundering racket that the ever-furious cook is making.

"I know what it is you want more than anything, Cheshire Cat. Chessur. Chess," she mumbles into his smiling face. "And I _promise_ the only way you will ever get it is by abandoning the Duchess."

The Cat sits back, his body and tail finally appearing. With harsh skepticism, he demands, "And what is it you think I _want_, Widow Woman?"

The Gray Lady doesn't hesitate. "A companion to equal you, who will never bore you, who will be your partner in all things. Yours and only _yours._"

For a long moment, the pair stare at each other, frozen. Uilleam scrambles away from the kitchen door as the angry footsteps of the cook thunder closer. "Gray Lady...?" he whimpers, afraid of that fearsome woman and her terrifying pepper mill.

The Cheshire Cat moves first. Without blinking or otherwise removing his stare from the Gray Alice, he nods toward a side door. "Into the pantry."

Uilleam has never – he is sure – moved so fast in his life! One moment, he is shaking in the middle of the filthy kitchen and the next he is slumped against the shelves in the dark pantry with the door cracked open to allow in a shaft of light and the Gray Alice's hand is once again firmly planted on his shoulder. They listen – and the Cheshire Cat hovers, contemplating the Gray Lady – as the cook bangs together a tea set and then slams out of the room.

"You offer this to me freely, Widow Woman?" the Cheshire Cat says when the cook has gone. "I need only let you take the Oraculum and..."

"Not quite," she replies bluntly. "You have a part to play in the coming events, but it is one that I think you will find very... rewarding."

"Hm... I admit I am intrigued, Widow Woman," the Cat replies. "But this is hardly the time or the place to discuss it, is it?"

"Perhaps not," the Gray Lady allows. "But, should you reconsider our bargain, it would be a small matter to steal the Oraculum back from me, would it not?"

"An excellent point! Very well," the Cat agrees. "As this appears to be a most _interesting _enterprise, I invite you to steal the Duchess' prized scroll. If you _can._"

And with that, he evaporates.

Uilleam lets out the breath he'd been holding but chokes on the very next one when the Gray Alice grabs his vest and hauls him to the pantry doorway. "_Come_," she insists on a whisper. "The cook will be back soon."

They scuttle across the kitchen to the door, which the old Alice eases open, peers out into the hallway beyond and then beckons Uilleam to follow. They scamper from doorway to doorway, ever ready to duck into a room at a moment's notice and Uilleam decides that Mally would have been better suited for this task. Dodo Birds, he realizes, do not _scamper_ effectively.

He is on the verge of sharing this observation with the Gray Lady when they hear the cook's heavy tread on the stairs. The old Alice pulls him behind a large, wilting potted plant along the side of the stairs and, crouching, they wait and watch as the cook – a frightful woman with a furious scowl pulling her face ever earth-ward, marches past, grumbling to herself. They wait until the kitchen door slams shut and then Uilleam once again struggles to keep up with the old Alice's quick, decisive strides as she hurries quietly up the stairs.

"... don't know what you are talking about, Sir Knave!" the Duchess announces loudly enough for her voice to carry along the hallway and down the stairs.

"... you know, Duchess." Uilleam watches as the Gray Lady shivers again. He himself shudders at the threat in the Knave's soft voice. The closer they move toward that voice (and the man speaking it) the more unsettled Uilleam becomes.

"I overheard you advise the queen to attack Iplam on Horvendush Day. Assured her of victory over her sister... _and_ possession of the Vorpal Sword. What _I _want to know, my dear Duchess, is how you _knew_ that would come to pass," the Knave murmurs.

"I knew nothing!"

"Now, come, come, madam. Do not be coy – you play the emotion so poorly. Tell me; what witchcraft did you use to make those events come to pass?"

"There is no witchcraft!" the Duchess shrieks, her voice shrill with panic and denial.

The sound of a teacup being set down upon its saucer precedes a beat of absolute silence, and then:

"_YOU WILL CONFESS YOUR METHODS!_" the Knave roars and Uilleam cringes against the wall of the hall. When the Gray Alice grabs his vest, he gladly allows her to pull him into a conveniently placed room and quietly shut the door behind him.

"It's only a matter of time," the widow murmurs.

Uilleam – shivering – nods. "Yes. I expect he'll use that sword of his and search this place himself if she continues to be... unhelpful. Perhaps there is _no _secret to be had," he mutters. "Certainly, one would expect her to divulge it when faced with... _him._"

"Oh, there's a secret," the Gray Alice replies. "And she knows it'll be her head if the Red Queen finds out about it."

Startled, Uilleam glances away from the door as the old woman leaves him and ventures further into the room. Only then, when his focus has broadened beyond the threat down the hall, does he notice that they appear to be in a very well-kept library.

He trails after the old Alice. "What secret?"

"The Oraculum," she replies, turning the corner among the book stacks and stopping before a pedestal with a glass case resting upon it.

The dodo cranes his neck to see over the edge and blinks at the rather plain-looking scroll within. "This is...?"

He watches as the Gray Alice removes a knife from her boot, slides the blade between the jaws of the lock and twists it viciously. The blade breaks and Uilleam flinches as the metal rebounds off of the glass with a musical _clang!_... then gapes as the bits of the broken lock bounce off of the widow's boots and clatter to the floor. She lifts the case, and snatches the scroll from its velvet mat. Uilleam is too stunned to feel shocked at himself for watching her stuff the scroll inside her shirt – between the jerkin and tunic she wears underneath.

"You've done it," he muses, disbelieving. "You've stolen the Oraculum..."

"And now we only have to get away with it," she murmurs, glancing over her shoulder in the direction of the door.

Uilleam turns with her and shudders when he hears footsteps approaching – reluctant, mincing steps and a purposeful stride – along the hall toward their door.

"Which room, Duchess," the Knave asks sweetly. "Show me this oracle of yours. This... Oraculum."

"Blasted boggletogs," the Gray Alice curses. Once again, Uilleam finds himself being dragged across a room, his feet and claws scrambling against the tiled floor and his knees knocking together.

He freely admits that _this _is far more adventuresome than he had expected. And he had, perhaps, erred when he had readily agreed to accompany the Gray Lady on her quest.

The Duchess' voice is shrill with stress when she speaks: "Here! It is kept here, in the library."

"Open the door," the Knave insists.

The brass door handle rattles and Uilleam breathes out a heartfelt sigh as the old Alice pulls him behind a very full bookshelf. The door opens and the Duchess protests sharply as her footsteps falter. "I'll ask you not to shove me about in my own home, Ilosovich Stayne!"

The sound of sword metal against scabbard leather manifests itself as an icy chill that skitters down the dodo bird's spine.

"Show me... the Oraculum," the Knave articulates, biting off his words two at a time.

Uilleam is jostled gently and he turns his attention to the peaky widow.

"Quietly," she mouths to him and he nods vigorously.

He follows her on tiptoe as they maneuver through the rows of books and shelves and stacks and tables. The journey only takes a moment, but it feels like so very much longer, as if they are dragging Time by its second hand along with them. But then they are but a sprint from the door and...!

The footsteps stop.

The Duchess' complaints stop.

All sound _stops._

A beat of silence _echoes_ in the room.

"_Where is it?_" the Knave growls.

And then Uilleam finds himself being shoved into the hall. He stumbles in the direction of the stairs, but a hand on his vest swings him around and into a neighboring room. He crouches with the old Alice in what appears to be a recital hall.

In the neighboring room, the Duchess screeches and shrieks, "Well... the moral of the story... and, you see, it was... and...!"

Uilleam braces himself for what must be coming. The Red Knave is not known for his leniency... or his tolerance of what he believes are useless creatures.

And yet, the sounds of a sword being drawn and a rather unfortunately uglified and pointy-chinned Duchess begging for her life are _not _what he hears next.

"Oh, my. What happened here?"

Uilleam blinks at the sound of a very Cheshire-like drawl. It is muffled from its journey through the library, out the door, down the hall, and into the recital hall where Uilleam huddles against the wall near the door with the Gray Lady.

"What does it look like, Cat?" the Knave growls.

"Why... it looks as if our Duchess' prized scroll has been stolen!"

Beside him, the old Alice huffs out a soft laugh. "Smart Cat," she mutters. She glances at Uilleam and seeing his no doubt befuddled look, elaborates, "He's not letting on that he knows what the Oraculum actually is. Smart Cat."

Setting aside the fact that he doesn't know what the Oraculum is at all, that line of logic seems a bit convoluted to Uilleam's way of thinking: surely, pretending to know less than one actually does is a very _odd _sort of way of being smart...

"My dear Duchess," Chessur muses, "I don't suppose this development could be at all related to the old Outlander woman I saw on the premises earlier today?"

"An Outlander woman!" the Duchess wails, as if the very thought is more terrifying than the Bandersntach.

"That very well may be," the Knave declares, disgust evident in his tone. There's the faint sound of metal against metal and Uilleam imagines the Knave has picked up the remains of the Gray Lady's broken blade. "Inferior Outlandish craftsmanship," the Knave announces and then the broken bits of blade are very audibly tossed aside. "Cat. In which direction did you see this Outlander slink off?"

"Towards Mamoreal, I believe."

If Uilleam had possessed a voice suited for growling, he would have done so right then. "Traitor!" he hisses. "Should have expected...!"

A leather-gloved hand clamps down on his beak rather forcefully and Uilleam struggles for a moment before he realizes that the regular thuds he hears are not products of his blood-pounding temper but the commanding strides of the Red Knave.

Uilleam's heartbeat picks up as the man approaches the door to the recital hall and pauses.

There is a moment during which Uilleam doesn't dare breathe, blink, think...

And then the Red Knave pivots and says very clearly, "You, Duchess, will have much to answer for, should I locate this... _prized scroll_ of yours and determine it to be precisely what you claimed... Of course, if I discover that you have _lied..._"

The Duchess, for once, does not appear to have an answer.

The Knave's smirk is audible. "Good day to you then, _Duchess._"

Uilleam listens with the old Alice as the Knave hurries along the hall and down the stairs. There are vague shouts in the yard and the unchoreographed, clanking symphony of red-painted armor.

"Bragergain i'tall," the old Alice mutters.

"Really, Widow Woman?" Chessur muses, whooshing into being beside them. "And here I thought you might be a _bit _more appreciative of my interference."

"You told the Knave exactly who stole the Oraculum!" Uilleam hisses, clicking his beak in abject aggravation. "And you sent him to Mamoreal!"

"Well, I _doubt_ he would have believed me if I had directed him anywhere else."

"True," the old Alice surprises Uilleam by agreeing. "But that doesn't mean you haven't made a rather large mess of things, Cat."

The Cheshire Cat narrows his aqua eyes at her, which she ignores. She leans closer to the door and listens, her wrinkled and gray brows scrunched up in concentration. Uilleam listens as well. The yard is silent. There is faint banging coming from the direction of the kitchen and shrill sobs interspersed with mentions of morals and stories which float out from the library.

"Come on, Uilleam," the Gray Lady says. "With the mood Stayne's in... we'd better find Hightopp and the others... before _he_ does."

* * *

Notes:

1. The Duchess and the Cook (and the pepper mill) are from Lewis Carroll's novel: Alice in Wonderland. As is their rather dysfunctional relationship and habit of shouting and rudeness. Furthermore, the Duchess is rather fond of stating the moral of stories in Alice in Wonderland.

2. Also, here we learn that Stayne knows what the Oraculum is. (I thought it odd in the film that he recognized it when he found it and even knew the name of it and yet Iracebeth didn't... in fact, she seemed rather ambivalent about the Oraculum and didn't seem to put much stock in it... otherwise she never would have agreed to pit her Jabberwocky against Alice, eh? It being foretold as a losing battle and all...)

3. Chessur has more to say on the topic of the Oraculum and Horvendush Day. We will get to that in a few chapters.

* * *

End of Chapter 7


	178. Book 5, The Bandersnatch & the Hatpin, 1

_**Chapter Eight: The Bandersnatch and the Hatpin  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

The road Stayne and the Red Knights take is not one that Alice recognizes. In all her years of traveling between Mamoreal and Crims and then from Iplam to both destinations, Alice had never noticed this path at all. And as she navigates it now, she wonders if this is – quite possibly – the last time it is ever used. It is grown over in places, losing itself in the foliage of the forest and she has to struggle to not only keep up with the group ahead but to stay silent and remain out of sight. Despite the fact that following in the _wake_ of your enemy is a very safe position to be in, it is only safe so long as that enemy has neither reason nor inclination to pause and look back.

Even though she _burns _to outflank them, to hurry ahead of them to make _sure _Tarrant, Mally, and Thackery have made it to Mamoreal already, Alice holds herself in check; she is very careful that both she and Uilleam do not give Stayne a reason to glance over his shoulder.

With her left hand, which is annoyingly numb, Alice gestures for Uilleam to stay close. Although the Red Queen's bulldog isn't looking for a blue dodo bird, she doesn't doubt the man will threaten to snap Uilleam's neck should he get his blood-stained and black-leather-gloved hands on him. For a moment, the pang of helplessness she feels as she thinks of these silly, lovable creatures at the mercy of such a monster overwhelms her quiet and persistent panic.

When this is all over, she decides, she will thank Uilleam for going into that house with her. His presence had grounded her with unexpected efficacy. Yes, she had missed Tarrant. Yes, she had _ached_ to have her husband beside her and her son in her arms. Yes, it had taken every ounce of her strength not to sit down on that disgusting kitchen floor and _weep_ at the thought of all that is left before her on this path the Fates had set her upon. But she had _not_ dwelt upon those thoughts; Uilleam had been there, someone to protect, to guide, to shelter. Someone who will _remember_ this day and all that had occurred.

_I am not alone_, she had thought, had _believed._ And it had helped. Tremendously.

The Dodo Bird's very existence had focused her, had strengthened her, had readied her for any confrontation... Of course, she had _not_ expected to confront Chessur.

_I should have remembered_, she chastises herself as she dashes on tiptoe to the next Tum Tum tree. Her memories of Underland from her childhood – back when it had been a _Wonderland_ to her young mind – are still hazy and vague. She had recalled the Duchess with her large head and snarling frown and pointy chin when the Fates had mentioned pigs. She had remembered an angry cook and a pepper mill and a small, grubby house in the woods. Alice feels one corner of her mouth turn up in wry – if dark – amusement. Even as a little girl, she had tried to save Underland. One baby at a time. She had failed, of course, but she had been unable to _not _try.

Perhaps... it has always been her destiny to come back here, to pick up the sword, to fall in love, to fight.

The thought is as comforting as it is frightening.

_I was destined to do this_, she hears herself say, admit, acknowledge.

Does that mean that Chessur had been destined to be so utterly selfish he had not even warned the Hightopp clan of the Red Queen's plans?

_Oh, Chessur_...

Suddenly, so much of the cat's efforts on her behalf – and on Tarrant's behalf – make a great deal more sense. There, in the kitchen, Alice had realized what her future friend must have known about the Red Queen. Had known... but had said nothing about.

_"I never get involved in politics."_

What utter rot!

"Later, Alice," she mouths to herself. Yes, later, when Tarrant is safe and the Oraculum delivered, perhaps she will have a chance to speak with Chessur about his unforgivable indifference.

Later.

Alice moves quietly, quickly along the path, ducking behind the groaning trees. She flinches as Stayne hacks away at branches in his path. She pities the trees, but there is nothing she can do for them now. Not with one numb hand and a left arm that is losing strength and resiliency by the hour. Not with a dodo bird to keep out of trouble and a trio of "lunatics" to save from Stayne's volatile temper and underhanded interrogation methods. There is only so much one old woman can do!

_At least I have the Oraculum_, she consoles herself. But the comfort that thought provides is cold. Stayne is still between her and Tarrant, hacking at the trees as he goes, threatening any and all into doing his bidding...

Alice wishes she still had full control over her left hand. If she had, she would have fisted it. Little by little, the Death crawling up her heart line is rendering her useless and weak. She does not have much time left. And soon she will have to leave her future husband and her future friends to their fate here. She will have to let them go on and fight without her.

She grits her teeth, damns her limitations, and presses on... in silence.

Well, perhaps not in Silence. The sounds of the Knave's steed's stamping hooves, the swish and thwack! of the Knave's long sword, the rattle-clank of the loping Red Knights fill the forest. Alice sounds and Uilleam sounds, however, do not.

And then another – a completely different – noise erupts in the forest, shattering the macabre march on the fading road. A noise that makes the hairs on Alice's arm stand on end. A noise – a cry, a call, an animal scream – she would know _anywhere._

"The Bandersnatch!" Stayne hisses. "You two, come with me. You four, continue on. Delay _anyone_ _and everyone _you find between here and Mamoreal!"

"Yes, sir!"

"Uilleam," Alice hisses softly despite the crash and clatter going on up ahead as Stayne's black stallion and two card soldiers dive off of the road and into the brush, clamoring in the direction of the Bandersnatch's affronted roar.

"Yes, Gray Lady?"

Alice debates for a short moment: would it be wiser to give the Oraculum to Uilleam and send him on? Or should she – a trained fighter – keep it despite knowing that the Knave is searching for her?

With a sigh, she says, "Hurry on, now. Try to get around the card soldiers without being seen and warn Hightopp and the others that the Red Knights are coming."

"I—! Wait! You are _leaving?_" he squawks.

"Yes. But I will find you again soon! Now _hurry!_"

Alice turns and crashes into the brambles of the forest, heading in the direction of the Bandersnatch. No doubt the dodo would have demanded to know _why_ she is abandoning him now, and, in all honesty, Alice can't be sure even _she _knows the answer to that. But she _feels _it. There is some purpose that is pulling her toward the Bandersnatch. Something she _must_ do. Something she must make Right...

_Be safe, Tarrant_, she prays, pressing her left wrist against her jerkin and the roll of parchment hidden beneath it.

She dives through the forest, no longer careful of the noise she makes, for the Bandersnatch makes much more. His roars are more than offended now. The tenor of his cries becomes enraged... and then desperate, pleading.

When she spots a flash of straining and struggling not-quite-white fur ahead, she slows, places her right hand on the pommel of her sword and creeps forward. What she sees through the tangle of wild berry bushes is not pleasant: the Bandersnatch struggles against the ropes and nets thrown over his heaving form. The Knave, obviously pleased with the work of the card soldiers, slides his sword into its scabbard. Even from this distance she can see a smirk on his face. A smirk and...

_Wait. What...?_

"No eye patch," she mutters, staring at the man's eyes. Two eyes. But then she shakes her head. That detail is unimportant. What _is _important right now is working itself into a panicked frenzy in the middle of the forest, clawing at branches, last year's autumn debris, unfortunately located bushes and saplings, and anything else his claws can reach. Despite his efforts, however, those terrible claws cannot reach the moorings of the ropes binding him to the ground.

"Excellent work," Stayne announces. "The queen will be very pleased."

The Red Knights – looking rather battered, mud-splattered, and sporting a very noticeable number of twigs and mulched leaves in the chinks of their armor – stand up a bit straighter upon hearing the man's praise. Although Alice suspects what they truly feel is relief.

"Thank you, sir," Card Number One says.

"Now, tire the beast out and then bind his legs so that he can walk and _not _galumph. I've something to take care of and will return shortly." Stayne directs his gaze to the pair of card soldiers that had followed him from the road. "You two stay and assist."

"Um, but sir... what do you mean by _tire_ the Bandersnatch?"

The Knave sneers, "You each have spears, don't you? Use your imaginations."

Alice's hand curls around the pommel of her sword as the Knave showily turns his mount back to the forest and the road they had had just left. She glares after him briefly, not regretting _one bit_ each and every scar she carries on her hands from the garrote she had used on the man's neck.

_You are dead, Ilosovich Stayne. Less than four years from now, you __**are DEAD.**_

It is a pity she cannot kill him now, cannot save Tarrant from being interrogated by this man, cannot stop the Red Queen from getting her hands on the Oraculum...

Still, despite those dark times yet to come...

_There is hope. It all works out._

And, as soon as she gets this blasted scroll to Absolem, it all _will_ work out.

_Soon, Raven. You'll be home soon and everything will be fine._

"Use our spears?" one of the dimmer card soldiers mutters aloud. "What d'you suppose that means?"

The Bandersnatch growls and rolls its eyes, huffing with exasperation. Alice snorts out a silent laugh. Yes, she'd be exasperated, too, had she been the one to be captured by such a group of idiots. But, rather than simply sit back and allow them to come up with any... _enterprising_ uses for the weapons they carry, Alice carefully watches as the Bandersnatch wriggles again, measures the amount of slack he's got to work with, and then she acts.

"Oh, ho!" she calls, standing upright. "Looks like you boys have caught yourselves a Bandersnatch!"

The card soldiers startle and leap into formation with their spears held at the ready.

Alice smiles thinly and moves toward the beast as if she is eyeing up a prospective mount... which, admittedly, she is. Or will. In the future, anyway.

"He's a beauty," she tells the soldiers as they watch her circle around the back of the heaving creature. "Would you take a cask of Witzend wine for him? I've been looking for a new mount, you know. For the grandkids."

As she speaks, she takes advantage of the Bandersnatch's bulk, which blocks her from view of the Red Knights. She pauses beside each stake and gently kicks at it a bit, then leans her heel against it, loosening it within the ground.

"You don't want no Bandersnatch for your grandkids, lady," one of the card soldiers declares.

Alice laughs. "Oh, you don't have any little ones of your own, now, do you?" she teases him with a knowing smirk. "Yes, I thought you looked to be a bachelor," she concludes when the soldier stands up a bit taller to compensate for the blow to his pride.

Another card soldier turns to his fellow and proclaims, "Ain't you asked that nice maid to marry you yet?"

"He ain't got a ring!" a third Red Knight interjects. Alice continues to work at the moorings, wiggling them loose one at a time. Out of the corner of his jaundiced eye, the Bandersnatch watches her progress.

"I _do_ have a ring!" the first card soldier protests.

"Well, then give us a look then," yet another invites, nudging him with his armored elbow.

The first grumbles, "I don't got it on me _now._ I'm working!"

Alice gives the stake she's currently working a final kick and with a glance and a nod at the Bandersnatch, he erupts into motion. Alice ducks down, flattening herself against the ground and rolling away as he surges up from beneath the net and lets his massive tail fly through the air.

It's an easy shot; all of the Red Knights are still clustered together in tight formation and all with their weapons only partially at the ready. The bulk of the Bandersnatch's extremely frumious tail slams into them and they somersault back into the forest, smacking and clanging against the trees.

Yes, it's an excellent shot, but Alice knows they won't be down for long. It takes more than a hard slap to stop the Red Knights. The Bandersnatch turns toward her, snuffling his thanks. Alice knows neither of them have time for that, no matter how welcome.

"Get out of here!" she hisses, shooing him away with her arm as she lurches to her feet. "The Red Queen _demands_ they capture you. You know they won't stop. If they do, it'll be their heads!"

"Grrrup!" he insists, shuffling a bit closer.

Alice crosses her arms. "Bloody brangergain, Sir Bandersnatch. Unless you want to find yourself working for the Red Queen, you'd better get galumphing!"

He shakes his head, turns to the side and nods for her to jump up on his shoulders.

"Blast and buttered toast," she mutters. "If it'll get you moving..." She takes a running leap (insofar as her aged, creaky knees _can _run) and pulls herself atop his dirty, matted fur. Her eyes water at the stench, but she says nothing to him about it. He knows he smells rather... rank. And, in the future, when he has his own troupe of grooms to see to his baths every day, his scent is musky rather than pungently ripe. She thinks of that future and tells herself it helps. Even though it really doesn't.

He takes off just as the pile of armor-plated cards start clanking and clunking with purpose. Leaning over his ear, Alice whispers her destination...

… a dormouse, a hare, and a hatter on the road to Mamoreal.

* * *

Notes:

1. Alice remembers meeting the Duchess and the Cook from Lewis Carroll's Alice in Wonderland. In the novel, shortly after meeting them, she runs off with the Duchess' baby, thinking to save it from her brashness (the Duchess handles the poor thing so roughly it screams and Alice takes pity on it). After running from the house with the child, it turns into a pig and heads off into the woods, at which point the Cheshire Cat shows up and leads 6-year-old Alice to the Hare and the Hatter.

2. I very nearly had Alice arrive in the Past _before_ Horvendush Day... and yes, I very nearly made her weigh her future with Tarrant and their son's existence against the lives of his clan and the guests at the Maigh. Nearly. My husband talked me out of it. (Hence the comment about avoiding "unnecessary angst" in the story notes on the table of contents page.) However! I had to nod to the pain Tarrant goes through and the sacrifices he makes during the film. Alice knows he is hurt very badly by the Knave (although I never explicitly state precisely how he'd been tortured while Alice spends the night under his top hat on the river bank). Here Alice acknowledges the horrors ahead of him and the fact that she can do nothing to stop or change things... without risking the future as she knows it.

3. I noticed in the movie that the Bandersnatch never _tried_ to hurt Alice. He chases her, roars at her, and the scratch he gives her is accidental (as he reaches for his face right after Mally plucks out his eye). And even after Alice gains his trust (which seemed a bit too easily done, in my opinion), she leaves the door to his shed open but he doesn't escape. So, that got me thinking that the Bandersnatch was waiting for her, just like everyone else, and was pretending to go along with the Red Queen's orders while hanging out at the castle at Crims just in case the Right Alice needed him. That's my theory and there will be more on this later. (^_~)

* * *

End of Chapter 8: Scene 1 of 2


	179. Book 5, The Bandersnatch & the Hatpin, 2

_**Chapter Eight: The Bandersnatch and the Hatpin  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Bends in roads are very dangerous places, Tarrant decides, raising his hands up in the air and smiling as best he can, which is Quite Well indeed considering the very long, very sharp, and very _experienced_ sword being pointed at his chest.

Yes, as soon as possible, he will petition the White Queen to equip all twisting curves in the roads with warning signs.

_Caution: Knave may be around the bend_

Or something similar. Perhaps a silhouette on a plain, pale background of some sort would be more universal and therefore useful to_ all_ of Underland's citizens, even those unschooled in reading and such. And, really, after a warning like _that_, you'd have to be completely 'round the bend to... well, _go around the bend!_

Tarrant giggles.

"Is something funny, Hatter?" the Knave demands.

"Oh, yes," Tarrant hears himself lisp even as Thackery hugs his right knee tighter. He can feel Mally's weight as she stands (no doubt proudly) at attention on the brim of his hat. He wouldn't be surprised to learn that she's looking the blighter straight in his black-hearted eyes. "I do believe I've just thought up a rhyme," he declares, sharing the news with All: the hare, the dormourse, the Knave, and the four card soldiers.

"A rhyme?" Thackery hiccups.

"Let's hear it, then!" Mally invites.

"Yes, let's," the Knave drawls in a dark, dangerous tone. "But first, answer my question, Hightopp."

Tarrant twitches at the sound of his family name. He does not like hearing it spoken by Ilosovich Stayne. He much prefers it said in the old, gray Alice's scratchy voice, full of impatience or comfort or immovable strength...

"Was there a question?" he muses aloud, trying to stay calm. Suddenly, galumphing off to the Gray Alice's assistance with only a pot, a pan and an assortment of hatpins does not seem like such a saganistute idea after all... "I do believe it has escaped me. Or... wait! Perhaps it has escaped you? Something has escaped, I'm fairly certain!"

"My patience," the Knave growls, crowding forward and Tarrant resists glancing over the man's shoulder at the Hell Steed smirking at them with his gleaming red eyes and slimy horse teeth.

"Have you _seen_," Stayne repeats, "an old Outlandish woman?"

"Aye!" Thackery shouts.

The Knave startles and narrows his eyes at the hare who is still clinging to Tarrant's leg.

"'Twas off teh th' Witzend Washer Ways wi'er basket o' wimples!"

Tarrant glances up from Thackery's googling gaze to the Knave's scowl. "What Thackery means," he interjects with as much levity as he can, "is that he has seen at least _one_ of the old Outlandish womenfolk _before_. Perhaps if you defined the perimeters of the question...?"

"Right!" Mally agrees from atop his hat. "We've all seen Outlanders o' all ages. A bit hard _not_ to with us three being from Witzend, yah see..."

Worried for Mally – the Knave could easily crush her with a single fist! – Tarrant giggles again. As it turns out, it is the Right thing to do for Mally... but a very Wrong thing for himself.

Tarrant chokes on his breath as Stayne's gloved and horse-ish smelling hand reaches out and twists itself around Tarrant's dirty and tattered bow tie. Tarrant feels the blade of the sword press against his stomach as the Knave pulls him closer. In order to better growl in Tarrant's face, perhaps...

"Have. You. Seen," the man repeats, biting off each word singularly and with extreme precision, "An. Old. Outlander. Woman. _Today!_"

For a moment, Tarrant panics. How can he tell the truth? And yet he knows he is a terrible liar! He prevaricates, "Was... was that a question?"

The sword point against his belly twists and he startles at the feel of sharp, cold steel against his skin – the bloody Knave had en-holed his vest and shirt!

"Yes, Hightopp. That was a question. _Answer it_."

"Aye, aye! Ye ask a quest'n teh ge'an answer, lad!" Thackery coaches him... rather _unhelpfully_.

"An' that ain't all! E'ery _riddle_ gets an answer, too!" Mally declares and Tarrant grabs onto her train of thought with both grubby hands.

"Do you know _why_ a raven is like a writing desk?" he hears himself babble.

And then he sees rage coalesce in the Knave's eyes. Tarrant realizes something Vital (very suddenly and with great clarity): he has pushed Stayne Too Far.

The Hell Steed stamps his foot. "Gut him," the creature urges and Stayne looks on the verge of doing that very thing... and with great relish...

Tarrant forces himself to keep his eyes open, to glare back at the man. He will not meet his end in _fear!_ He will not disgrace the Gray Lady further. True, he is not – nor will he ever be – a warrior brave enough or strong enough to fight the Bluddy Behg Hid's minions... but he will _not cower before them!_

"I saw an old Outlandish woman!"

Tarrant startles, blinks. Stayne pauses, continues to stare at him, and Tarrant moves his tongue about within his very dry mouth to check – just to be sure! – but... no, no, his mouth is still very much closed. Which means someone _else_ had just spoken and...!

The Knave slowly sets Tarrant back on his heels (for which his aching toes are _very thankful_) but still keeps his fist around Tarrant's bow tie and his sword trained on his belly. He glances to the side and Tarrant finds himself doing the same thing... until he sees a very shaky dodo bird, his knees knocking together with fright.

"Did you now?" the Knave replies silkily. "Where did you last see her?"

Tarrant wiggles his brows at the dodo, trying to convince him to riddle or perhaps rhyme his way out of this mess – there's no point in _all _of them dying here on this forgotten road! But the Red Knights encircle Uilleam and he squeaks with a rather embarrassing lack of dignity when they train their spears on him.

"Where did you last see her?" the Knave says again.

Uilleam wimbles with fascinating incoherence.

Tarrant nods a bit, encouraging him to draw out his answer. The Knave, however, glances quickly back at Tarrant who – somehow – manages to slap a vacant grin on his face just in time. He tells himself that Uilleam is here, which means the Gray Alice is _near_ (a rhyme!) and surely she will be able to help them! With that thought, he feels his smile take a turn for the genuine.

"Dodo birds respond very well to lullabies," he informs Stayne in a courteous tone.

Stayne growls at him then turns back to Uilleam. "Tell me where she was and when you saw her, Dodo, or you'll have the pleasure of watching me gut the Hatter, here, before I do the same to you!"

Uilleam screeches, steps back, then screeches again when he pokes himself upon one of the spear tips. "At the Duchess' house! I saw her just minutes – moments – ago on this road fleeing the Duchess' house!"

Tarrant feels his smile slip from his face. He glances about the road, from tree to tree, but he does not see the Gray Alice anywhere. He shakes his leg, trying to dislodge Thackery, to urge him to run, to save himself, to find a nice lady-hare and have litters and litters of googly-eyed, twitching, leproids... but the blasted creature clings tighter.

"Thank you, Dodo," Stayne replies in a tone doused in oil and slick with grease. He then looks back at the Hatter and his smile widens, becomes rather... toothy.

"I'm considering things that begin with the letter _M_," Tarrant whispers.

Impossibly, Ilosovich Stayne's grin widens. "As am I..."

Tarrant summons a smile – shaky though it is – as the Knave's intent becomes clear, as he braces himself, readies himself for thrusting the sword through his gut...

"Merri'anglin' mayhap?" yet another voice inserts into that threat-laden, final-breath-of-a-moment, a voice that makes Tarrant's heart leap up into his throat despite the constriction of the neck tie still held in the Knave's grasp.

Yet again, Stayne pauses. And, with comical hesitance, looks up and over Tarrant's shoulder and toward the road that the Red Queen's forces had already traveled. Tarrant is tempted to turn his head and confirm with his own eyes that the old Alice is there – really _there _and _not_ a blessedly reassuring figment of his mad mind! – but, regrettably, he cannot.

The same, Gray-Alice voice continues, "Nae, tha'snae a merri'anglin' ye're after. Mayhap a manglin'?"

The Knave narrows his eyes and loosens his grip on Tarrant's neck scarf. "You...?"

"Grabber-snatched th' Oraculum? Oh, aye. I s'pose ye're wantin' teh clap yer peepers on i'?"

Tarrant's ears strain as the sound of paper against something... perhaps leather?... hisses in the wake of the Gray Alice's flawless Outlandish. And then he stumbles, arms flailing to keep from crashing down in a heap on top of Thackery, as the Knave not only releases him but _shoves _him out of the way.

"If'n I'm kennin' yer bellyachin' a-righ'ly... _This _be wha' ye're lookin' fer?"

Tarrant turns his head – sighing happily as he is now able to indulge in the very simple action – and grins at the sight of his mentor, the Grayest of Gray Alices, standing in the middle of the road and speaking the most outlandish of Outlandish, holding up a scroll of rather papery and ordinary-looking parchment in her right hand.

But then Tarrant notes that she is, unfortunately, standing between the Knave and the Duchess' house... which perhaps helps Tarrant as it implies that he and Thackery and Mally had _not_ seen her on the road after all, which is true – they hadn't! – but _now _she'll have to duck and dodge the Knave to get free and clear and...

His brows twitch and he glances down at Thackery who stares back up at him with what is no doubt an equally worried expression: neither of them have tested the Gray Alice's ducking and dodging skills for they have not had a single Tea Occasion since her arrival in Iplam.

Tarrant feels his fingers curl and uncurl again and again as he kneads this new worry.

"Give that document to me, Old Woman," the Knave commands, holding out his left hand.

For a moment, no one moves... well not too much anyway. Uilleam is still shuddering in the circle of spear points and Thackery is still panting with panic and the Hell Steed is still smirking his stomach-lurching smile.

And then the Gray Alice lifts her chin. The dim, forest-filtered daylight illuminates the scar across her throat as she shoves the scroll back inside her leather jerkin.

"Come an' ge' it, Knave o' th' Bluddy Behg Hid!" she declares, drawing her sword.

Tarrant experiences a very strange sensation caused by his urge to cheer clashing violently with his fear for her. What can she – Alice-y though she may be – who is naught but an old, gray widow, _do_ against Underland's most fearsome and down-right _dirtiest_ and _dishonorable _and _ruthless _fighter?

The Knave laughs. He throws back his head and _laughs._ The man doesn't even deign to answer her challenge. With a nod and flick of his wrist, he directs the four card soldiers to... _handle _her.

Tarrant wracks his already disjointed mind for something – some _way_ – to help her. He looks at his shoes, the road, the hare, his hands, the trees, the sky, his hat...

The Red Knights obey the silent command quickly, leaving Uilleam on the side of the road and advancing on the Gray Alice with uniform alacrity. The widow braces herself and places her left hand on the pommel of the sword as well, presumably to steady the blade further. The card soldiers close in, spears pointed rather inevitably at her _very_ inadequate leather jerkin.

"Ye'll wanteh be-well o' thase wee sticks, lads," the old Alice croaks, her dark eyes shifting from one to the other as they approach. "Ye wou'nae wanteh damage yer master's precious _Oraculum_ nauw, wou'ye?"

They falter, briefly. But that brief pause is Enough.

She _erupts_ into motion, pivoting smartly and slicing the head cleanly off of the left-most spear then, twirling sharply, slams the flat side of her blade into the stunned card soldier's helmet. The knight falls back against his fellow, who loses his grip on _his_ spear and the old Alice swings her sword again, knocking the weapon into the woods.

That quickly, two are down and weaponless: one is Out and then other is shoving and struggling (unsuccessfully) to move his comrade's bulk.

The old Alice smirks. "Com'on, lads. Le's see ye do better than tha'."

They try, Tarrant gives them that. But their efforts are in vain. Another blurrily-fast _slash_-pivot-_thrust_-spin-_smash!_ later and both are lying face-down on the side of the road. Tarrant blinks. Amazed. How had she...? And she hadn't even killed a one of them and...!

The sound of the Knave gritting his teeth interrupts Tarrant's disbelief and _relief_. And then the sound of the man's footsteps as he advances on the Gray Alice stops Tarrant's heart.

To her credit, the Gray Lady doesn't back down. She holds her ground as she holds her blade: with confidence and determination.

"Mally..." he hears himself whimper. "Fez... pan... pot... hatpin... hat... hatter... help..."

"Yahr hat!" Mally hisses at him, stomping on the brim to get his attention. "Toss yahr hat, Hatter!"

Happy to obey, happy to be doing _something_ to save the only person he can consider Family now, he carefully lifts his hat off his head. He notes that Mally has braced herself on the brim, one of the hatpins in her paw, and gestures toward the Knave, toward the old Alice, toward the Tum Tum tree branches hanging over the road above the pair. His brows twitch as he Understands.

"Oh, well-thought, Mally," he praises her on a whispered lisp as he eyes the distance, the angle, the ambient light and direction of the wind... He takes into account the strength of his Will, determinedly Forgets the fact that his hand and his eye (neither the left nor the right!) have never managed very well at coordinating when it comes to long distances, and then...

"Hold on tightly!"

… he curls his arm in and, with a snap of his arm-elbow-_wrist!_ sends the hat spinning up into the air. He mouths silent encouragements to it to go up and over and up a bit more and just a little to the left and...!

He sighs with relief when the hat is caught by the grabby branches of the Tum Tum tree and Mally gives herself a brief shake, looks around to orient herself, and then – hatpin held in her mouth – scurries from the hat and onto the thin branches.

The sound of steel striking steel startles him into returning his attention to the Knave and the old Alice. He knows he must be gaping like a mindless simpleton but he can't seem to stop himself. The old Alice cuts the air with her sword, redirecting the Knave's longer blade into the ground where she _steps on it and slashes at the villain with her sword!_

The Knave is stronger than her, though, and quickly pulls his weapon free. The Gray Lady doesn't wait for him to begin his next attack. She is fast – _very fast! –_ as she swings for his head, misses, and then arcs her blade toward the man's knees.

The Hell Steed makes a sound of appreciation as the Knave jumps back awkwardly.

"You're not going to let her get away with that, are you?" the black horse demands of his master.

"Most certainly _not_," Stayne replies, tightening his grip on his sword and moving in once more.

Tarrant risks a glance up into the branches of the trees and, after a moment, spots Mally who is leaping from twiggy bough to wispy branch – risking life and tree limb! – to gain a position directly over the fighting.

He fists his hands, watches and flinches as the swords meet again, and _wishes_ with all his might that he had been a better student of the warcraft that the Gray Alice had tried to teach him! He had been useless and blunderingly skill-less in Iplam and he knows he's equally useless now. But _that _Truth will not be so for very much longer! He makes this decision even as he curls his fingers into a fist, growling out his frustration and fear.

"I'll re-learn it all," he promises on a soft rumble. "I'll protect mae friends an' th' White Queen. She'll wear th' crown again. I _swear_ it!"

"Swish and flick!" Thackery squeaks. "Should'a broke th' wee sticks!"

Tarrant glances away from the fight as the old Alice nimbly sidesteps a thrust from Stayne's noticeably _longer_ long-sword and pushes him back with a well-placed jab of her own. He follows the hairy hare digit that Thackery points across the road and gasps as the one conscious Red Knight manages to wriggle out from under the weight of his still-unconscious comrade.

Tarrant berates himself for his useless idleness as the card soldier collects a discarded spear and rounds on the combatants. "Bluddy brangergain...!" Tarrant curses. _Why_ hadn't he taken the chance to step-stomp-_jump!_ on the fallen spears and render them useless?

_Yer head_'_s got a use fer more than holdin_' _up yer hat, lad!_

Indeed it does.

Not that it matters _now!_

Or maybe it does...

Tarrant glances down and scoops up the uneaten apple he'd dropped. Collecting the pan he'd released when he'd rounded the bend and found the Knave standing opposite him with his sword drawn, Tarrant continues to ignore Thackery's clingy-ness as he hefts the fruit, eyes the Red Knight, takes aim and...

Tarrant tosses the apple straight up in the air, swings the pan by its long handle and...

_Thwack!_

The sound of the apple being struck by the flat bottom of the pan sounds remarkably like Thackery's name, Tarrant muses as the fruit rockets through the air and smacks (with satisfactory soundness!) the Red Knight in the side of his helmet.

"Excellent thwack-ery!" the hare approves, releasing Tarrant's knee and applauding.

"Have I made you proud, old friend?" he replies, grinning.

"Blast it! Juice in the hinges! You'll pay for that!" the Red Knight grumbles, turning his spear in their direction.

Gulping, Tarrant stumbles back a step before Thackery reattaches himself to his knee. He glances toward Alice but no help will be coming from that quarter in the next few seconds! She ducks another slashing attack by the Knave and refuses to circle him. And, considering the fact that a very _hungry_-looking Hell Steed is watching the proceedings from behind Stayne, Tarrant considers that a very wise strategy. His gaze flies up and finds Mally still racing-jumping-struggling amongst the boughs. He looks back at the Red Knight and clutches the cooking pan tighter in his hand.

The Red Knight lifts the spear, readies himself to strike.

The old Alice rolls away from the Knave's plunging blade.

The branches above Stayne continue dipping and swaying.

And Uilleam – forgotten until this moment – startles, screeches, and streaks toward the center of the road. His panic distracts the Red Knight, who swings wildly with his spear, catches the dodo in the side with the pole of the spear and sends him hurtling toward a tree. The sound of his blue-feathered body striking the massive trunk is followed by the most hideous roar imaginable.

The Knave, just readying his next lunge, hesitates.

"Gothcha!" Mally cries and, gripping a rather supple-looking branch in one paw, she dives for the Knave's face, hatpin held at the ready. With a very dormouse-ish battle cry, she swishes and flicks the Knave across his cheek and eye.

The man shrieks, grabs for his face...

And then Tarrant staggers back as the most frumious mass of nearly-white fur he has ever smelled _charges_ into the road and butts the startled Red Knight through the air...

… and into the rather distracted and distressed Knave.

One of the trees sways deliberately into their path and with a sickening _thump!_ the Knave strikes his head upon its rough bark-covered bulk.

But the Bandersnatch is not finished; he spins and roars again – this time at the riderless Hell Steed. The beast panics and, hooves scrambling for purchase, crashes into the woods with the Bandersnatch hot on his heels.

"Mally!" the old Alice shouts, tucking her sword under her arm and holding out a hand for the dormouse to leap onto, which she does.

"Did I ge'is eye?" Mally demands.

"You _intended_ to, did you not?" the Gray Lady replies in a lecturing tone, glancing over her shoulder at the dormouse's victim. "Intentions are powerful things," the old Alice continues in a grave and thoughtful manner. "Yes, you got his eye. Well done, Mallymkun. Well done."

Tarrant glances at the crumpled figure of the fearsome Ilosovich Stayne and winces at the sight of the deep, bloody scratches on the left side of the man's face. Oh, goodness. Yes, that will most _definitely_ steal his sight _and_ leave a scar if he doesn't get a bit of ointment on that immediately. Which he very likely won't.

Tarrant smirks. "Congratulations, Mally!" he calls, "on your very first eyeball!"

She cackles with glee.

"Uilleam?" the Gray Alice croaks with concern.

Flinching – once again recalling the Dodo Bird's surprising contribution to the melee – Tarrant gently pries Thackery off of his leg and rushes over to the creature twitching and moaning at the base of a rather stout Tum Tum.

The dodo tries to pick himself up, but crashes back into a pile of feathers and long neck and large beak. "My... leg..." he whines on a weak breath.

"Hightopp," the old Alice says firmly. "Would you carry him? We must get to Mamoreal and the queen's infirmary."

"Mirana o' Mamoreal ain't the queen," Mally reminds her.

"Let's not waste time on semantics. The Red Knights will pull themselves together soon."

Tarrant hands the sauce pan to Thackery and – as gently as he is able – gathers up the dodo. Despite his attempt to be careful, the bird blanches beneath his feathers and whimpers. The Gray Alice's hands assist them and after a bit of tentative repositioning, Uilleam finally sighs.

"It's bearable, Gray Lady, Master Hatter."

"Then let's be on our way."

Thackery wastes no time in setting off down the road, conducting the path ahead with a wooden ladle and a saucepan, as if expecting the wind and the trees to suddenly strike up a rousing hero's theme. Mally climbs up onto the old Alice's shoulder and Tarrant smiles appreciatively as the old woman knocks his hat out of the tree branches with the tip of her sword. She carries it back to him and he holds still as she settles it upon his head.

"There. Now we're all ready."

"Thank you," he lisps as they begin the remainder of their journey.

The widow arches a heavily fleshed, gray-haired brow at him. "Hm, yes, I do believe I'm owed that much. I distinctly remember telling you _not_ to come with me today, Hightopp."

He ducks his head. He can feel his brows tremble above his unfocused eyes. Her censure, mildly voiced though it had been, cuts him far more deeply than it should have. "Ye wen'teh see th' Duchess. Ye took yer Stubbornness an' yer Sword, Gray Lady. I thought... mayhap ye wou'be... an' I cou'nae..."

"Hightopp."

He looks up at the sound of his family name, surprised by the depth of emotion he hears in her tone. Her dark eyes are glistening and her wrinkled lips are pressed tightly together. He is not sure if she is now fighting a battle against laughter... or tears.

"Gray Lady?" he prompts warily.

She takes a deep breath and looks away. "Nice shot. With the apple." She glances back at him, a smirk on her thin lips.

He giggles. "You _did _tell me to use whatever is at hand to fight."

"That I did. Be it an apple and a saucepan or powder puff and a bottle of perfume," she mumbles. "Whatever is at hand, Hightopp. Never forget it."

"I won't," he promises. And he can't help but feel a little be-pride-ish over the fact that he _hadn_'_t_ forgotten it. Not today. Not when it had really Mattered!

The old Alice turns her gaze back toward him at that, her brows lifting in question. Perhaps she had heard the Pride in his tone. The Expectation, Determination, Declaration, Anticipation...

He offers her a shy smile. "I'll do better – _be_ better – at warcraft, Gray Lady. I'll fight for the White Queen."

For a long moment, she says nothing. She simply looks at him and Tarrant fears she is weighing him, measuring him, finding him lacking...

"Then all is as it should be," she eventually answers. That and no more.

Tarrant glances periodically at her as they make their way down the road to Mamoreal, wondering and fretting why the Gray Lady hadn't sounded nearly as happy about his acquiescence as he'd expected she would.

* * *

Notes:

1. In the film, Stayne approaches the tea party saying, "If it isn't my favorite trio of lunatics!" This implied to me that he'd had dealings with Tarrant, Thackery, and Mally before. So I wrote this encounter on the road as (perhaps) one of several "dealings" they'd had with each other before that day. In the confusion, Stayne never realizes that Tarrant had hit the apple at the Red Knight. Nor does he realize that Mallymkun had been the one to damage his left eye. And with the bump he'll have on his head from hitting that tree, his memories of the incident will probably be a bit hazy anyway...

2. Yes, the scar and the Knave's missing eye were Mally's first "victories". I realize that, when Tarrant tells Alice about Horvendush Day in the movie (which happened to be the same day as the Maigh that year in OPK-verse and, FYI, the day of the Maigh changes from year to year), Stayne has an eye patch which would be contrary to this sequence of events but... um... well... I guess I _shouldn_'_t_ have let Mally slice him up but... she was Insistent! Beware dormice with pointy hatpins! (Admit it... we'd all like to carve up OPK!Stayne a bit.)

3. And you might have noticed that Uilleam was using a cane in the movie... this is the incident that injured his leg, delayed medical attention that would have healed him completely, and precipitated the necessity of a cane. (In the books, the Dodo Bird was very spry – he ran in the Caucus Race in Alice in Wonderland.)

4. Here we see Tarrant's first attempt at tossing a hat while being pressed for time and in Dire Circumstances! No doubt he endeavored to improve after that so he was ready and confident when the Right Alice arrived and needed his help!

5. As an author, I tend to enjoy writing neat and tidy story lines where everything is very linear (OPK 1, anyone?) but here I took something that I consider a J.K. Rowling technique out for a spin. I messi-fied up everything – lots of characters and lots of things happening and a huge what-the-blue-bandersnatches-is-going-on-here? then shake it all out and voilá: everything works out just hunkydory! (^_~)

6. Yes, we all know why Alice is not jumping for joy at the end of this chapter. Of course she doesn't want Tarrant to have to walk the path that's before him. But it's not as if she has much of a choice. Hence her lack of enthusiasm when he agrees to train harder in order to become a fighter. Like her.

7. Finally, thanks to my husband's adamant encouragement, Widow!Alice kicked scut. He said, "In my opinion, a strong, old Alice can almost beat Stayne on just skill." So, that's precisely what I wrote. (^_^)

* * *

End of Chapter 8


	180. Book 5, Making Belief, 1 of 3

_**Chapter Nine: Making Belief  
**_

[Scene 1 of 3]

"Access _not _granted," the knight intones, barring Alice's way on the wide, ever-blossoming-tree-lined path with his pearly spear.

For a moment, Alice is too shocked to reply. Yes, the White Queen's life had been very recently threatened and her crown stolen and her power revoked. Yes, the White Guard had lost a good many of their fellows during the attack. Yes, it makes perfect sense for them to be wary of strangers, which Alice freely admits to being in this time and place...

But, this is perhaps the _first time_, in all her experience in Underland, that someone has taken _sensible action_.

It's rather a shock.

"Not granted?" Tarrant lisps, gesticulating gracefully with one hand and causing his tattered cuff to flutter in the air.

"Spoon!" Thackery declares, leveling his ladle on the White knight.

From Alice's shoulder, Mally declares, "_I_ don' need yahr permission tah set foot in Mamoreal!"

As her future friends and her will-be-husband protest, Alice grits her teeth as a shiver quakes through her. She barely feels it in her hand or up her forearm anymore, but when she _does_ feel it on her upper arm, the sensation strengthens with terrible power. The chill _erupts_ above her elbow and beneath her arm, _shoots_ up to her shoulder, and then _plummets_ down to her chest, where is _burns_ ice-cold and then sinks into her heart... which aches very noticeably.

Yes, she is still dying and she knows she doesn't have much time left.

"Oh, no. We'll let _you_ in, Madam Dormouse," the second guard intones from within his rook-shaped helmet. "It's only strangers we've been told to be wary of. And we don't recognize you, Stranger," he concludes, his attention very pointedly directed at Alice.

The first guard concurs, "You _could_ be an assassin sent by the Red Queen!"

Unfortunately, despite her advanced age, Alice has to admit that she looks the part.

"But she's an _Alice!_" Mally insists with heartwarming loyalty and obstinacy.

Alice, however, can see that the declaration is not going to do any good. She glances at Uilleam whose eyes are bleary with pain. Oh, botheration! They don't have _time_ for this nonsense!

"You misunderstand," she says, interrupting what she is sure will be another denial. Reaching out, Alice collects Tarrant's hand – which is still held aloft in frozen disbelief – and wraps his rather filthy fingers around her own arm. Shivering with another rolling wave of cold, she grits out, "I'm Hightopp's prisoner."

"You are?" the guards ask at the same time Tarrant glances down at his fingers curled around her upper arm and muses, "You are?"

And then he gives himself a brief shake. "Yes, yes!" he declares with such authority that Alice feels her cooling heart swell with pride. "She came from _inside _the Castle of Crims, you know!"

The guard stutters, "Cr-crims? Er, escaped or...?"

"Mally!" Tarrant hisses and, following a very meaningful twitch of his brows, the dormouse draws the borrowed hatpin she'd stuck in her belt and points it at Alice's eye.

"We _captured_ 'er!"

"_And_ the very valuable information she knows," Tarrant concludes with a decisive nod.

"Knows all thar is teh know!" Thackery inserts unexpectedly, googling and shuddering and glaring at the guards.

"Yah goin'tah le'us _all _in, now?" the spunky mouse challenges.

"We'll keep aur eyes on th' auld bessom," Thackery announces. "Eyes, aye. All ten-an'-two o'em!"

The second guard glances back at his guard-mate, then, hesitantly points out, "Er... there's only the three of you, with two eyes apiece..."

"Och, tha' _ye_ can see!" the hare rhymes, panting and twitching. The ladle, interestingly enough, remains steady in his furry grasp.

"Fates of Underland," the knight grumbles, lowering his spear.

"Exactly!" the hare exclaims, leading the way down the pearly white drive.

Alice stumbles showily along, frowning mightily, playing up her role as well as allowing herself to express the occasional grimace as one shiver and then another rushes up her arm.

"Gray Lady, are you well?" Tarrant murmurs when they four are all beyond earshot of the guards.

"As can be expected," she temporizes. "Don't let go of my arm until Mirana tells you to."

"Mirana o' _Mamoreal_," Mally corrects her sternly, the hatpin most considerately lowered away from her eye. "First yah say we're off tah th' _queen_'_s_ infirmary an' now yah'er callin' her by 'er given name!"

"Indeed," Tarrant muses in a thoughtful tone that Alice knows precedes a moment of his blindingly bright brilliance. "Precisely which is it you mean, Gray Lady?"

Before Alice can fumble for a reply, Thackery interjects, "Ask th' Fates yerself if'n ye're keen teh know! Oracles teh introduce!"

"Right you are, Thack," Tarrant admits – perhaps reluctantly – a moment later. "We do have other priorities at the moment."

"I think you're enjoying this just a bit too much," Alice redirects him. "You're lucky the guards never asked why _your prisoner_ is wearing a sword."

"You'd hardly be much of a suspicious person if you weren't," he replies.

She rolls her eyes. Apparently, his Un-logic is an indefatigable aspect of his character.

Seeing the future White Queen of Underland is as simple as stumbling up the stairs, into the main hall, and delivering a bossy demand (this from Mallymkun) to see the once-was monarch. Uilleam is carried off to the infirmary by a pair of frog footmen and the throne room doors are swung open by Algernon and... It all happens so fast that, thankfully, only four additional shivers make her tremble in her will-be-husband's grasp.

"Release her, Hatta," Mirana says, smiling gently upon seeing them. "She is our guest here..."

"I'm afraid not. I am merely a messenger," Alice differs gently as Tarrant's warm hand slides away from her cloth-covered arm. She despairs for the loss of his touch as she weeps in silence for her son whose own existence now hangs in the balance of all she does here and now. Suddenly, the chill takes on new significance for her as she draws nearer to the conclusion of her appointed task. Has she done enough to ensure that the Underland she knows will be waiting there when she returns? Or has she done too much?

Terrifying as these thoughts are, there is no way for Alice to know for sure one way or another.

It is a cruel moment to be in. She wracks her brain for as many 24-year-old memories as she can... and hopes...

"A messenger. Hm... yes," Mirana muses, her dark gaze examining Alice from the windblown wisps of gray hair on her head to the toes of her scuffed, leather boots. "Hatta... Dormouse, Hare... will you please excuse us? I sense there is something our... reluctant guest needs to say to me in private."

"Gray Lady?" Mally squeaks before anyone else can protest.

"She's right," Alice concurs. "I will see you three again later."

Looking rather unsure, Tarrant hesitates to go.

"I promise," she adds. "And you know what a promise is worth."

"I do," he lisps and finally does as his preferred sovereign had bid him.

She watches her friends go, stands alone while the dormouse, hare, and the man who will father her child leave the room, wishing she could follow them, but knowing that she cannot. This is her task to complete. Just as what is coming will be theirs. Thus, the sound of the heavy doors closing behind them, echoing in the great, cavernous hall, is not a comfort to her. Hoping that she is doing the Right Thing, Alice takes a steadying breath and says to her hostess, "The Fates of Underland have sent me."

The had-been and will-be-again queen smiles softly. "Yes. I know. They said they would send help."

"You Courted them?" Alice muses, remembering the conversation on the edge of the croquet pitch so long ago.

"What else could I do after... what happened?"

The woman is clearly referring to the attack on Iplam Village, and is also clearly still mourning for those lost, so Alice does not badger her for a confirmation. "What else, indeed. And they have sent me."

"Alice..." Mirana surmises. "Yes, they have sent you, Alice. _You_ are the one who will save us."

For a moment, she can do nothing but blink at the observation. "I... I'm sorry, no. I'm afraid I am not the right Alice for that task."

"But... Fate... She assured me..."

"You are waiting for another Alice," Alice hears herself say, biting back the twinge of curiosity that would have made her ask: _She? The Sheep? Or is Fate completely different for you?_ Yes, its a head-spinning thought to contemplate that each and every individual in Underland has their own, _personal _Fate (although that makes a great deal of sense!) or perhaps it is the petitioner who makes Fate appear as it does?

As a shiver screams across her shoulder and down to her heart, Alice gives herself a brief shake. As she had told Mallymkun not so long ago, wasting time on semantics will hardly do anyone any good now.

"You _are _waiting for Alice, but the Right One. Here. I will show you." With that, Alice removes the Oraculum from within her jerkin and unrolls it. The destruction of Hightopp Village makes her pause, for it _is_ here, just as she'd suspected it would be. And it breaks her heart that the Duchess had allowed it to occur, all for the sake of securing her own position in the Red Queen's Court. And it nearly brings her to her knees at the thought of Chessur's blatant lack of assistance, of warning, of _caring..._

But, then again, perhaps she is judging Chessur too harshly. Perhaps, even had he looked, even had he acted, nothing could have been done. The Oraculum has been known to change, after all. And it has been known to show only that which must be seen in order for Underland to continue to exist as the Fates decree it to.

Alice gently unrolls the parchment and more events scroll past:

The delivery of the Oraculum, at the hands of an old, gray woman, to Mamoreal and Absolem.

The construction of a new prison in Salazen Grum, one that is horrible and dark and _not_ made from edibles.

The enslavement of so many creatures.

The Bandersnatch being directed by Stayne to do the Red Queen's bidding.

The morning beheadings... including that of a certain duchess and her cook.

So many dark, dark things are recorded in the coming days, and yet there is light. Tarrant is there, leading the Resistance against the Red Queen, marshaling rebels and foiling the Knave's plans in secret. Mally is also there with him, standing proudly with a hatpin sword in her belt and not a sleepy yawn in sight.

And then Alice, _The _Alice, arrives.

"Here," Alice shows the will-be White Queen. "The right Alice will come. On Griblig. And on Frabjous..."

"Yes, I see," the future queen muses. "She will be my Champion."

"She will protest," Alice feels compelled to warn her. "But yes, eventually, she will. Once she sees this." Alice indicates the Oraculum. "Once she understands..."

"Then I shall be patient." Mirana smiles and relaxes. "Thank the Fates... and thank _you_, Gray Lady with the Impossible Scar."

Alice twitches, raising her hand to her own throat before she can stop herself. "Not impossible, Your Majesty."

"Isn't it? I may not know much about Uplander physiology, but _that_ is a mortal wound. Had it been left untreated for the length of time necessary to make that scar, _surely_ you would have died. If not from the loss of blood, then from its inflicter's Intent."

The practiced gaze of a healer studies Alice very thoroughly and she must command herself to hold still and firm.

"Therefore you must have been healed quickly, which would have removed the Intent... and yet the scar remains."

Again the White woman pauses. Alice waits, thinks, plots, says, "Perhaps I received this scar Above. Things are different there."

"Did you?"

Even now, Alice cannot bring herself to lie to the woman who will claim the throne for which Alice will risk her life to keep secure. Mirana notices this and nods.

"There is only one conclusion to be had."

"You must not share it with anyone. Please," Alice says into the expectant silence.

Mirana's hands lower a bit as the solemnity of her tone seems to weigh on both of them. "Ah... of course not, for it is too late to undo, is it not?"

Relieved, Alice merely nods. Perhaps it is _not_ too late to undo the future, but Alice is too fearful of losing it to allow the risk: Tarrant must never suspect that she is, in fact, _his_ Alice, not until she asks him to help her die, not until she shows him how he must kill her. In truth, she fears she has already left too strong an impression with him and frets that she has changed the future already: her husband had never mentioned an old widow who had mentored him in the wake of Horvendush Day. But surely he would now, wouldn't he? His rush to "rescue" her seems to indicated that she _matters_ to him, so wouldn't that mean that he will miss her? Speak of her? Worry about her when she is gone?

But what is there to be done about all that now?

And then, thankfully, a very distracting, steely gleam enters Mirana's dark eyes. "Oh! We have much to prepare! First, of course you must deliver this to Absolem, as has been foretold." She indicates the Oraculum with an airy gesture. "I will have him brought here."

"Was Nivens successful...?"

"Oh, yes!" Mirana assures her. "They arrived three days ago."

"Botheration. I'm sure he's in a mood."

"Rather," Mirana admits, her eyes narrowing with what Alice knows is curiosity and speculation. "Nivens will have to be sent up to London... for I believe that is where Alices are from, are they not?"

"This one is," Alice allows, entirely truthfully.

"Hm, yes. And then we shall have to see about some armor for our Champion..."

With a shiver-aided start, Alice realizes that the armor she had donned on Frabjous Day had, indeed, been ready for her when she had arrived at Mamoreal. In fact, it had been _waiting _for her. And, once she had been her proper size again, it had fit her perfectly.

Mind racing, Alice realizes it had fit her perfectly because...

"Use my measurements," she says to her will-be friend. "We Alices are of similar size. It will fit her."

Mirana nods. "Which is why it was _you_ the Fates chose to send. Yes, I see now."

So does Alice. So much more than she had ever thought possible.

* * *

Notes: 

1. At the beginning of the chapter, Thackery's comment about keeping their eyes on Alice - "all ten-and-two of them" - refers to the eyes of himself, Mally, Tarrant, and each of the three Fates that Alice met in the Hallowed Halls of Time. Again hinting that Thackery has a certain access to Fate that no one else in Underland does. Thackery can _hear_ them, can sense their intentions. Because the Fates are Timeless, the message is a bit garbled as Thackery gets bits from the past, present, and future. It is rare that anyone can converse with or hear the Fates without Courting them in this 'verse and it is Thackery's special "gift"... and the source of his "madness". It's arguable that Tarrant _does_ receive a message from the Fates in OPK Book 2. After the Hatter inexplicably passes out then comes around again in _Chapter Three: The Sixteenth Day_, Thackery encourages Tarrant to make a rhyme and Tarrant produces: "Spring waxes and Iplam waves, a silver flower her hand displays." This foreshadows Chapter Sixteen, of course. But it tickled me to think that in that moment of confusion, Tarrant could sense a slice of the future, perhaps given to him by the Fates. Does that make sense? Who knows. I think it's cool, though.

2. So it is Mirana who deduces where Alice can be found (in London). Unfortunately, since she doesn't know the precise address (and Alice doesn't volunteer it and risk making Mirana even more suspicious of her) McTwisp ends up chasing "one wrong Alice after another" (which he complains about in the film).

3. Alice's scar: Why does Alice have scars on her hands from killing Stayne? Well, because even though she received treatment right away, it wasn't _proper_ treatment for wounds of those sort. Also... I kind of think that Alice wanted to keep those scars, subconsciously. So, the scar on Alice's neck _is _impossible because an improper cure wouldn't have saved her life, but a _proper_ cure would have healed the scar completely. The only possible conclusion is that Alice _wanted_ that injury in the first place... Hence its "impossibility".

4. Was anyone else struck by Mirana's comment in the movie: "You're a little taller than I thought you'd be..." Yes, that could be explained by saying that McTwisp reported Alice's size when he found her, but... I kinda like the idea of Alice modeling for her own armor. (^_^)

* * *

End of Chapter 9: Scene 1 of 3


	181. Book 5, Making Belief, 2 of 3

_**Chapter Nine: Making Belief  
**_

[Scene 2 of 3]

"I've been expecting you."

"And I'm late. Alices tend to be, I'm afraid."

"You _could _have slipped away from that fitting over an _hour_ ago."

The Gray Lady sighs. "Well, I'm here now, Chessur."

"Yes, I can see that."

"And now you want the rest of it."

"Naturally."

Tarrant continues hesitating just around the corner of the night-darkened hallway. He had been waiting for the Gray Lady to finish her business with Mirana of Mamoreal. He had been hoping he would be able to ask her more about who she is, why she had come to help him, how she had known where to find him once she had known the date, why she had needed to be told the date in the first place... But none if it is as important or as driving as his need to simply _see_ her once more. He has felt, increasingly as the day had worn away into darkness, a sense of impending separation... as if she, too, will leave him. It scares him; the thought of being alone... again. So, when he had heard her purposeful gait echoing down the corridors, he had raced down hall after hall and followed her, _found _her... but now he finds he must wait. Apparently, she has an appointment with the Cheshire Cat.

"Tell me why I should help you now, Chessur? You lived in that house with her. The Oraculum was there for you to see, to _know._ The Oraculum _foretold_ the attack on Iplam. You could have prevented it _all_."

"The Jabberwocky, you mean? Yes, I suppose I could have."

Tarrant blinks, chokes on something strong and sudden and surging in his gut. His ears fill with the rush of his own anger and confusion and betrayal and...!

"Yes, I could have saved Tarrant's people," the Cat continues, his drawling tone sounding as if it has traveled a very long distance before reaching his ears. "In fact, I made up my mind to do precisely that... do you want to know what the Oraculum showed me once I had?"

"Go on."

"A battle. A march on Crims. Every Outlander in Underland would have drawn swords against the Red Queen, heedless and willfully ignorant of the Jabberwocky's terrible power... and _all _would have perished. Is that what you would have preferred, Gray Widow? An Underland without a single Outlander, their young ones enslaved by the Red Queen?"

A long pause follows this. "... No. Of course not."

"I'm not _completely_ unfeeling, you know," the Cat continues. "How would the eradication of so many benefit me? It wouldn't, of course. What a waste it would have been. Not to mention the fact that my intervention would have been recorded in the Oraculum. I would have been found out eventually... and promptly hunted! Perhaps mere queens and knaves cannot trap a Cat with Evaporating Skills, but there are plenty of others who would have been happy to utilize their own unique gifts in tracking to locate me and take revenge upon the one they believe had led the Outlanders to their destruction. That would have been _quite_ unpleasant for me."

"... yes. I imagine it would have."

"And so I did nothing."

"And so you did nothing."

Tarrant lifts his head and blinks at the wall opposite him. He takes great care in memorizing everything he can about it. At the moment, it seems to be the most important thing in the world.

"So, does that answer your question, Widow Woman?"

"It does, Cheshire Cat. And now I will tell you what you want to know."

"My tasks?"

"Yes. First, when Alice arrives in Underland on Griblig, watch for her in the forest, near the Room of Doors, and lead her – once more – to the Hare and the Hatter."

"The Hatter... are you... _sure?_"

"Very."

"All right then. What else?"

"On the eve of Frabjous Day, the Red Queen will schedule two executions. At sunset on the day before they are carried out, offer your assistance."

"Help them escape, you mean."

"Yes. Crouch it in an offer. Barter, if you like, but save his life."

"Ah, a _he_ is it?" When the Gray Lady does not reply, the Cat continues, "And I will do this at the cost of my own life?"

"No. You will not be harmed. In fact, you will have a splendid time doing it."

"Spoken like someone who will be there personally," he observes wryly.

"I won't be."

"Hm... If I do these things – show this Alice—"

"_The _Alice," the Gray Lady corrects him.

"Yes, yes, _the_ Alice. If I show her the way to wherever Tarrant and Thackery are and I help this fellow escape from prison on the eve of Frabjous Day..."

"If you do those things, Chessur, you will have what you want most in all the world."

"And how can I trust you to speak the truth?"

There is a very long pause before she replies. "I suppose you can't," she finally says. "But tell me, Chessur, what do you have to lose if I _am _lying? You have seen the dangers of these tasks. I am sure you will prepare well for them."

"Hm. Point taken, Widow Woman. I will do as you ask in exchange for this thing." The Cat pauses and then presses, "It _will _make me happy, will it not?"

"Yes."

It is only one word, but it _rings._

It rings in Tarrant's ears and it _galls_ him that this... this... shukm-lickering... egg-brimni... booly-greizin'-grommer will receive any _sort _of guarantee of happiness after he...! After he had seen the warning in this Oraculum that the Gray Alice had stolen and yet he had done nothing! NOTHING!

"Hm... I'd best be going... And you'd best be attending to Tarrant. I think he's about to erupt."

Tarrant doesn't know how the Gray Lady locates him so swiftly. She is around the corner and bracing his shoulders with her leather-encased hands so fast that a helpful gesture from a slurvish, shukm-slackush toadie must have directed her to him.

_Ye don' want teh b' thinkin'bout that, nauw, lad._

No, no he doesn't.

He opens his eyes and tries to fight the mercury rising within him, but he can feel it burning his skin as his rage ekes out from his reddened gaze.

"Gray Lady?" he grits out through the haze.

"Yes. That's it. Focus on me. Take another breath. That's good, Hightopp. Now another..."

She coaches him as she had coached him in Iplam. The Gray Lady has always strived to help make him better, to help him _be _better, and he takes comfort in that. He wants to make her proud. For this old woman – for whom he would make a Hightopp tartan if only the memory of how it is done no longer had the power to eviscerate him – yes, for her, he fights the madness.

"Breathe in again... Good. Very good, Hightopp. Now let it out slowly... There's a lad..."

"Chessur _knew_," he hears himself accuse in a voice he does not recognize as his own; it is too deep, too dark... it is Blackness itself.

"And chose the path that lead to fewer deaths."

"Chose the path that saved his own skin! Should have... _another WAY_!"

She doesn't argue with him. The old widow curls an arm around his shoulders and ushers him around the corner and into her apartment. She kicks the door shut and sits him down in an arm chair. He trembles – _shivers, shudders, quakes!_ – against the cushions.

"Be angry," she permits him. "You've that right."

"I want _justice_!" he hisses.

"And you know how to get it, don't you?" she tells him, her dark gaze burning into his and he must admit that she is right. He _does_ know how to get revenge. She has _shown_ him what he must do, what it will require from him. And, for the first time, he is not overwhelmed by it.

She continues, "Do not waste your ire on that cat, Hightopp. Save it and store it and use it against the ones who _chose_ to wrong you and your people."

"Our people," he corrects her, not forgetting that she is both an Uplander and an Alice.

Her expression softens at that and he feels himself relax along with her. "Aye," she breathes. "Our... people."

She had been about to say something else, he is sure. He's of a mind to ask her about it, but then her gloved fingers lift and touch the scar on her throat and the question dries up into nothing.

He watches, still breathing heavily as his anger and madness subsides, as the Gray Lady turns away and directs her attention to a tea set, of all things. Moments later, she holds a cup out to him. From the flavor and thickness of the steam, as well as the shade and the subtle swirling of the beverage itself, he knows that it is Throeston Blend and that it has been fixed to his preference perfectly.

"How did you know?" he murmurs, accepting the cup out of awe rather than any genuine thirstiness.

"I know you," she answers.

"You also know the future," he says, remembering her promises to... that... Tarrant gives himself a slight shake and watches her expression, waits for her reaction.

"I know the task I was given," she finally corrects him. "I was sent to deliver the Oraculum to a worthy keeper... and, I believe, to prepare all of you as best as I am able. Do not ask me about the future, Hightopp. You know what is coming. You must be ready."

"Ready...?" His mind whirls at the implications. "So... you... you cannot stay?"

"No. I'm sorry, Hightopp. This path you must make on your own."

"On my own," he echoes, gulping down a rush of... _something_ that explodes up from his heart. He drops his gaze to the cup in his trembling hands.

"It will not always be so," she whispers, drawing his gaze again. "She... _He_ will come. The one who will slay the Jabberwocky... and save you."

"Who? This... this Oraculum that... Iplam... it shows...?" he queries, knowing he shouldn't ask, chastising himself for his weakness, wishing she would answer faster, hoping her words will be a comfort and not another curse to bear.

"'Twas brillig," the Gray Alice tells him on a husky whisper. "And the slithy toves did gyre and gimble on the wabe. All mimsy were the borogoves, and the mome raths outgrabe."

Tarrant stares, enthralled, as she speaks, as the words seem to fill the room like treacle in a well.

"The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame, jaws that bite and claws that catch! Beware the Jabberwock, my son, and the frumious Bandersnatch!"

He shivers, despite himself. There is Power in her words. He can feel the Truth of a Prophecy throb against his skin. No faded sketch on a mere roll of parchment can compare to this: _these_ are words from the Fates themselves, he knows. He _feels._

The Gray Alice leans forward. "He took his Vorpal Sword in hand; the Vorpal blade went snicker-snack! He left it dead, and with its head, he went galumphing back!"

"What..." Tarrant manages to stutter long moments after the firelight from the hearth has warmed the chill in his veins. "What is that?"

"It's about Alice. The Champion of the White Queen. The slayer of the Jabberwocky."

"Alice."

"The Alice."

"The Alice..." he says slowly, "will come?"

"Will return," she corrects him urgently. And then she smiles and breathes on a chuckle, "The very same one whom you so offended so long ago."

He frowns into his teacup, unsure of what to think of that, of what he ought to feel... The sensation currently churning in his chest feels very much like... anticipation. "Alice..."

Yes, he remembers her. Golden hair in need of cutting and odd Uplandish ideas and huffs of affront and contrary pouts and sunny smiles and...

"Alice?" he seeks to confirm, unable to say more than her name, unable to describe her properly. The Gray Lady, however, seems to understand precisely whom he means.

She nods. "Will you wait? Will you gather those loyal to the White Queen, keep them as safe as you can? Wait for your chance to lead the rebellion against Iracebeth? Will you do whatever you must, whatever you can, to help Alice? Even if that means you must become skilled at lying, at hiding, and at fighting? Even if that means surrendering your life? Even if that means escaping certain death to stand on the battlefield and at the Champion's side?"

"I will," he hears himself vow. "I will do all of that. Even wait. I'll go and actually Kill Time if I must!"

She smiles thinly. "He'll not thank you for that."

"No, I don't suppose he will," Tarrant replies. "But we haven't been on very good terms since... Well. It's been a long time."

The Gray Lady has no answer to that. She reaches into the pouch tied to her belt and pulls out a small glass bottle with a cork stopper.

"What's this?" he asks when she holds it out to him, obviously intending for him to take it.

"Pishsalver," she says as he complies and cradles the bottle in the hand _not_ supporting his teacup and saucer. When he looks up with a frown, she continues, "Smaller things are easier to hide. Save it for when the one whom you protect desperately needs it."

"This is good-bye, isn't it?" he asks, curling his fingers around the tiny container.

She doesn't answer that question, but another that he hadn't asked. "Your hair wants cutting."

Tarrant frowns mightily, fighting tears, as he considers both that fact and the distant memory it stirs. "I suppose that is true."

He hadn't yet managed to get the tangles and knots out of it completely when he had at last cleaned up. Cutting it all off would be easier than trying to deal with it properly. But more than that, he decides, cutting it will _prove_ to this old woman (who has done so _much_ for him!) that he is earnest about his declaration to be the warrior she wants him to be. (But no, that's not right. She does not _want _him to be a warrior. He had noticed that earlier today in her lack of enthusiasm and her sad silence on the road to Mamoreal. She does not _want_ him to fight, but she knows he must!) And fight, he will. He will protect those he can. He will lead the Resistance, launch a rebellion, wait for and then guide the Alice...!

Tarrant places the tiny bottle of Pishsalver in his vest pocket and sets his teacup aside. He doffs his top hat, sets it on the low table between them, and then draws a pair of sewing shears from his jacket pocket. Offering them to her, offering her this proof of his intent to take up the mantle she is telling him he must don, he says, "If you are willing to oblige me, Gray Lady."

She stares at the small pair of scissors as they gleam golden in the light of the fire. Swallowing thickly, she sets her teacup down and takes a deep breath. Despite that, a long moment passes before she speaks.

"Do not," she rasps, her dark eyes shimmering with moisture, "be too hard on Chessur for what he did not do." She looks up, meets his gaze, and he stares as a pair of fat tears spill onto her cheeks and tumble over her wrinkled skin and roll down to her sagging chin. "For I am no better."

And then she reaches out and takes the scissors from his grasp.

Tarrant thinks about that as she pulls a sheet from the bed and drapes it around his shoulders. He thinks about her task – this thing she is doing for the Fates of Underland – and its importance. He cannot fathom the breadth of her bravery or the depth of her duty, and so he says, simply, "I'm ready."

"Not yet," she argues softly. "But I know you will be."

He listens as she pulls her gloves off. There are no mirrors in the room, so he cannot see her hands as she works, gently parting his long, orange-stained hair and cutting out the snarls. "I'll leave it a bit longer on the top, shall I? For your hat."

"Yes," he lisps, and then great locks of hair begin falling around him, rolling down the sheet over his chest to pool in his lap. The night deepens and the fire crackles-cackles-cracks in the unworded farewells they exchange: He has given her his promise to be the fighter she has tried to help him to become, and she has given him the means to succeed at it.

He presses the palm of his hand against the little bottle in his pocket. "I don't want this to be good-bye."

"Neither do I, Hightopp. But it must be." She pauses, as she has been doing from time to time, and Tarrant is not quite sure why she does that, but he thinks it might have something to do with the shivers he had felt from her today, had often seen at Iplam and had blamed on the wind. But there is no wind here, in the castle, and he knows it is too late to ask her why she shivers.

"All things must end," she whispers.

Despite it being true, the truth gives him no comfort now.

"Life, death... sleep," she murmurs.

"Sleep?"

"Yes. Mallymkun has awakened. Have you noticed?"

"Of course!" Of course he had noticed! She had opened her eyes and gathered her wits and strength long before he had!

"I think she'll need a sword to go with those opened eyes. It would be nice if it came from you."

"From me?" he checks.

"Yes. Believe in her, Hightopp. Consider it practice for believing in Alice."

"I already believe."

"Not enough. Believe in yourself, in Mally, in Mirana of Mamoreal, and _then_ believe in Alice. In that order." Tarrant mulls that over as the scissors continue snipping softly and slowly, as his hair continues to tumble to the sheet-draped floor and a soft, motion-made breeze whispers against the bare nape of his neck.

He sighs. "I don't like farewells very much."

She huffs a humored breath. "Then I would strongly recommend avoiding them in the future."

"Saganistute advice, Gray Lady."

"Wise beyond my years," she mumbles wryly.

He supposes she is. He supposes she would have to be. He considers her Widow's Peak, which conceals her true age, and the inexplicable scar across her neck and this task she has spoken of...

"Perhaps, when you return to the place from whence you've come," he ventures, "things will be different. But better! And you will have no reason to be gray."

Her hands pause at that. For a very long minute, she makes no sound or motion whatsoever.

"Thank you," she breathes in the instant before he would have turned to look at her. And then with three more snips from the scissors, she produces a comb. Tarrant closes his eyes as her warm hands move through his now-short hair. Only his mother and aunts and grandmothers had ever touched him like this. And he knows with soul-quaking sorrow that he will _miss_ them. He will miss _all_ of them. And he will _miss_ this lady as well. He will miss her _too_ much.

He bites his tongue rather than ask her not to go. She had already given him her answer and he knows this mysterious woman well enough to know that no amount of begging will sway her. She would stay... if only she were able. He _knows._ She would lead the Resistance herself and spare him this haircut if only she could. But she can't and she hasn't. They both know he must be the one to do these things.

"Will you...?" he begins, stops, wishes this moment would never end.

"Will I...?"

"Stay... for a little while yet?" he finally dares.

"I think I can do that," she answers, stepping away and pulling on her leather gloves. He wants to ask her why she always wears those things but merely accepts the scissors when she returns them to him, merely watches as she gathers up the corners of the sheet and his mercury-stained hair cradled within it.

"Is there a looking glass?" he asks.

"Through there," she says, nodding toward the bedroom.

He glances toward the open door, but doesn't move toward it.

"It's late," she says, as she sets the sheet beside the front door. "Sleep, Hightopp."

And when she places a hand on his arm and guides him into the next room, he goes willingly. She permits him to take the side of the bed that is closest to the mirror, which he promptly – and without a single glance toward its reflective surface – presents his back to as he curls around her smaller, wrinkled and leather-armored frame.

He will not remember her, he decides. The pain of doing so will be far, far too great for him to manage. Nor will he permit himself to remember the ones he has lost. Not yet. No, for now he must remain focused. Memories... will only distract him. So he will shut them away. It will be better that way. He will remember Alice. He will wait for Alice and he will fight and lead and...

"I'll not forget all you have taught me," he promises on a strangled breath. "And I will make you proud, Gray Lady."

Tarrant Hightopp closes his eyes when her gloved hand wraps around his wrist and holds on tightly. No, she does not say the words, but – oddly enough – he has the sense that she already is.

Now all he must do is _earn _that respect. And _that_, he Believes, he can do. 

* * *

Notes: 

1. In the film, when Chessur encounters Alice after she runs from the Bandersnatch and the Red Knights, he seems so happy to see her. "_The_ Alice?" he says. And now we know why. This is the first of two tasks which he has to complete in order to get the thing he wants most: a companion who will never bore him and will be his most faithful friend. Also, from what Tarrant overhears in the hallway, we see why Tarrant and Chessur have a strained relationship in the film.

2. After a comment from a reader, I went back and checked and discovered that, in the original book (Alice in Wonderland, _Chapter 7 – A Mad Tea-Party_), there is **no** reference to the Hatter having actually _killed_ Time. In the book, he relates an occasion when he sang for the queen and she said, "Stop it! You are killing time!" It seems that only in Burtonverse, the Hatter actually does Kill Time. Hence the reference here to it happening not when Alice was a little girl, but much later (i.e., just before Alice's arrival in Underland in the film). If I'm mistaken, please let me know. A reference to which chapter in Lewis Carroll's books would be very welcome, as well. After that (in this chapter), why does Alice say she and Chessur are alike? Because they've both been manipulated by the Fates, in one way or another, into allowing bad things to happen.

3. The haircut. (Check out Regina Spektor's "Samson" for my musical inspiration for this scene.) So that's how Tarrant ends up with short hair in Burtonverse... and possibly why he never gets another haircut throughout OPK. Simply put, he doesn't need one after Mirana becomes the White Queen again. And maybe also because the memory of his last haircut is so poignant; it is his "goodbye" to his mentor. A promise to make her proud of him, to help the Right Alice, to be a leader, and to be strong in the days ahead.

* * *

End of Chapter 9: Scene 2 of 3


	182. Book 5, Making Belief, 3 of 3

_**Chapter Nine: Making Belief  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Uilleam supposes he shouldn't have been so surprised, really. It's the oldest story in the history of the world. The war veteran receives succor from a lovely, young nurse and falls madly in love with her. And he cannot deny that he is, rather unexpectedly, a war veteran of a sort, nor that he is desperately in love with the lovely dodo hen who had tended to his injuries in the infirmary. Othenia, she had said her name was, and although Uilleam has not found any suitably flattering words that rhyme with it, he is not concerned. He will finish a sonnet to her, in her honor, with or without rhyming. Such is his adoration. Even the cane that he must use is not as hated as he would have expected, for _she _had been the one to give it to him.

"Fashioned it myself," she had chirped shyly, endearing herself even more to him. "And I think you'd suit it fine, Mister Uilleam."

He had been too tongue-tied to thank her and had fumbled, dropping the precious cane, when she had given it to him.

And then she had rewarded his clumsiness with a gentle look and a touch of her beak to his.

How... unexpected.

But welcome!

So much so that he has been unable to sleep all night re-remembering the moment. In fact, he is still sitting on the terrace when dawn breaks the dome of night and shoos away the stars and a strange man with short, orange hair and a singed top hat strides onto the croquet pitch accompanied by the captain of the Mamoreal Guard. He blinks as the man lifts and then wields his sword with a purpose and skill and efficiency that a long-haired Hatter had never managed.

Perhaps this is an unexpected side-effect of receiving a haircut?

What an interesting thought to contemplate!

But not _quite_ as interesting as thinking of lovely, kind, wonderful Othenia...

Uilleam has every intention of spending the remainder of the morning thinking of nothing but her as his hip finishes healing: "This time tomorrow, you'll be right as a river bend," Othenia had said. "You're quite fortunate it was an accidental injury; those heal much faster than the non-accidental sort."

So, enjoying the fact that his hip is pain-free and mostly healed – if a bit stiff and unresponsive, but truly that can only be blamed on the hours it had taken for the Hatter to carry him to Mamoreal – Uilleam lingers on the padded bench, turns his thoughts away from the rather impressive sparring match on the field, sighs out the name of his true love and...

… then something _else_ unexpected happens. The Dormouse, Mallymkun, rushes out onto the terrace waving something hatpin-sized and hatpin-shaped but considerably sharper!

He wobbles out of her way as she screams her thanks to the Hatter, who grins and nods without breaking his concentration.

"He's actually doing well with that," she observes after a moment, and since Uilleam is the only other being present, he feels compelled to answer:

"Yes. Unexpectedly well."

"What do you suppose caused it? The haircut?"

"I surmised the very same thing," he admits.

"Strange," she remarks, sheathing her new sword and hooking it to the belt at her waist. "I ain't never seen a haircut do that before."

"Neither have I," he sighs happily. _Good _and _interesting _unexpected things _do_ happen sometimes. Not just hardly ever or rarely. They happen _sometimes._ It's a comforting thought for the dodo.

And another unexpected thing: "The Hatter gave you that... sword?"

"He did!" she declares with much pride. "Found it in my room with a note just for me!"

Uilleam blinks. It is unexpected but _true_, then, that the Hatter _believes_ that this little dormouse can do great things. Uilleam rolls this concept around in his mind before deciding on an appropriate response.

"Congratulations, Mallymkun," he intones.

"Thanks, Uilleam."

His happy sigh is silent, but _real_.

For a long moment, Uilleam finds himself enjoying a moment of silence with his old friend as they watch the Hatter embark on this new enterprise of warcraft. It is frightening, this change, but also exhilarating and wondrous. It's not until Mally speaks up, gesturing toward the orchard beyond the field that Uilleam realizes quite a bit of time has passed between them.

"Did yah see that?"

"See what?" he replies.

She squints her liquid dark eyes. "I think it was the Gray Lady..."

And without another word, she races off to investigate.

"Oh, not again!" Uilleam moans, thinking of Squimberry patches and Royal Decrees and morning beheadings. He hobbles after her as fast as he is able on his new cane, negotiating the terrace steps carefully and shuffling along the orchard path with much flailing and flapping of his left wing. He glimpses her tail as she disappears through the castle gate and, with a nod to the guards on duty, he follows her.

Uilleam grumbles as he pushes his way through brambles and bushes in pursuit and, as a reward for his efforts, nearly gets skewered through the ankle by the brand new sword that is in the possession of the very object of his rescue mission!

"Shhh!" Mally hisses, pointing to a clearing beyond and the two figures occupying it. Uilleam follows her gesture and startles.

"Sir Bandersnatch," the Gray Alice greets the beast with surprising warmth. "You were waiting for me after all, weren't you?"

He huffs in affirmative and shuffles closer.

"And I'm late. My apologies, friend."

Uilleam gapes as the beast sighs expressively.

The Gray Lady joins the fearsome creature in that gesture and, reluctantly, she says, "Leading the Red Knights on a merry chase is all well and good, but it will not help the White Queen's Champion, when she arrives."

"Grrrb?"

"Yes," she says, answering his trilled inquiry. "Alice – another Alice, the _Right_ one – will come to slay the Jabberwocky. And she will need your help."

"Grrrt. Grrrrl!"

"What must you do?" The Gray Widow smiles gently. Then she leans forward and, despite the frumious stench, whispers into his small, twitching ear. Uilleam glances at Mally, who glances at him and shrugs helplessly; she can't hear the old Alice's words, either.

"Do you think you can do all of that?"

He nods once with a gruff bark of assurance and, amazingly, the Gray Lady scratches him behind his grubby ear.

"Thank you and farifarren, friend of Alice," the Gray Lady bids the Bandersnatch.

Uilleam hears Mally snort in disbelief and he agrees; imagining the Bandersnatch as the friend of _anything _that is not on the menu is quite difficult to do!

And then it doesn't matter if bandersnatches _do _have or even _can _have friends; the Gray Lady lifts her face to the sky, closing her eyes. Her lips move but her whisper is too soft for Uilleam to hear.

A moment later, a beam of the purest sunlight descends upon the old woman's form, sparkling and shining with heavenly brilliance. Uilleam has to raise his feathered hand to block the power of that light, to spare his eyes.

And then, when the glow diminishes and he dares to peek out into the clearing once more, he sees in the place where she had been standing... no one.

The Bandersnatch snuffles at the ground, turns his small, yellowed eyes toward the heavens, whines once, and then – with a great, huffing sigh – ambles off into the wilds.

"Where d'yah suppose she went?" Mally asks, awed.

Uilleam turns his face upward as well, and replies, "I expect she went... to a most _un_expected place, my friend." Unexpected... and very far away.

* * *

Notes:

1. Here we finally see not only how Uilleam actually gets the cane that he uses in the movie, but that he has met his future wife (whom I mention in Book 3).

2. Also, I remind everyone that Intentions in Underland have consequences. So, when (in Book 2) Tarrant intended to punch Leif on the nose, that caused his broken hand to take longer to heal than Uilleam's accidentally broken hip. Perhaps Mirana's interrogation of Tarrant over his broken hand makes a bit more sense now, hm? Intentional injuries have different remedies from accidental ones. (^_^)

3. Finally, despite Mally and Uilleam overhearing a friendly conversation between Alice and the Bandersnatch, they just can't believe that so hideous a creature could be capable of something like friendship... which is why Mally doesn't hesitate to stab out his eye in the film. However, later, after the Bandersnatch rescues Alice from Crims, he is welcomed at Mamoreal (possibly with Alice's endorsement off camera?) after proving his loyalty to the White Queen by rescuing Alice from Crims.

* * *

End of Chapter 9


	183. Book 5, The Light at the End, 1 of 2

OPK Book 5 has a total of 12 chapters plus an epilogue. Just FYI.

* * *

_**Chapter Ten: The Light at the End  
**_

[Scenes 1 & 2 of 3]

"Alice..." Absolem had sighed with something that might have been contempt except that Alice has, over the years, come to know him well enough to realize it is merely exasperation twisting his mouth into an expressive grimace and stiffening his posture. "I shall continue to be tormented by stupid girls, I see."

"Yes, you shall," she had replied, biting back a smile. Despite his cantankerous tone, it had felt wonderful to hear the sound of his voice again. "As the most absolute creature in all of Underland, I, under instruction to do so by the Fates, deliver the Oraculum into your keeping."

"Hm..." he had mused and, had he had his hookah at hand, he would have puffed mighty rings of smoke in the interim between then and his next words. "Very interesting." High praise, indeed, Alice had known, watching him study the contents of the scroll which she had placed on Mirana's office desk for his convenience.

"And I see I'm to tolerate yet another of your kind here, on Griblig Day," he had muttered without any real heat. "At a secret location. No doubt I will have told only a hint of it to each of these creatures here so that they must escort this Alice to it together."

"A perfect plan," Alice had said. "The location will remain safe then, even in the event that one or two are captured or careless."

"Or a spy for the Red Queen," he had ruthlessly added and Alice had appreciated that ruthlessness, that realism. It is a skill she has employed often herself.

At the caterpillar's insistence, the meeting had been brief and Alice had submitted to the Royal Steel Smith for measurements. She had half-expected to find Tarrant there, with a measuring tape in hand and broad grin expressing the pleasure that also lights his unfocused green eyes, but no, there had been no Mad Hatter to greet her in the workshop. And she had known that the chance of her seeing _that _smile upon meeting him again would be small. In the throne room, he had hesitated, visibly fretted; he had likely sensed the End drawing nearer: the End of Alice's time here; the end of his luxury of time to grieve... and soon all the rest will Begin.

Alice watches Tarrant Hightopp nimbly sidestep a lunge from the captain of the White Guard and counter the armored soldier's next thrust with a heartfelt parry. Of course she had not wanted this for him. She had wanted to save him from the sacrifices and the pain that are ahead of him. But what she wants is only a useless ghost of a dream here. Out of necessity, she had made him promise to fight and to win. Perhaps those promises will be enough – a guarantee – to ensure his safe passage through time until her younger self arrives.

As her future husband attacks the captain of the guard with much improved skill, Alice finds herself both envying and pitying the younger Alice who will arrive in half a year's time. She envies her for having a future with this man to look forward to, to savor and enjoy and _live_ . And yet she pities her for all the hardships, the pain, the mistakes she will make and moment when she will eventually lose him. Alice knows she can change none of that.

She had been tempted – so tempted! – the night before, when Tarrant had confessed his desire to prove himself, to make her proud of him, to tell him that she has _always_ been proud of him, but she hadn't. Couldn't. It will be that need – in part – that drives him to succeed in his role as Leader of the Resistance. It will be that ambition that will endear him – to a certain extent – to her younger self.

Alice wishes she could have stayed with him, but when the weak light of the creeping dawn had spilled in through the window, she had crept out of bed. She had dared to press one kiss to his temple as he had slept peacefully – rather than fiercely or fearfully! – upon the bed. The bed... which will become _their_ bed in the apartment which had been given to the Gray Lady but which Tarrant will claim for himself and then, years later, open to her, his young wife, _his_ Alice...

No, Tarrant will never tell his Alice about the Gray Lady. Perhaps because the memory is too fraught with emotion; perhaps because it would be too difficult to explain their friendship and the context that had brought it about; perhaps because he remembers what she had tried to teach him and honors her memory daily by the very fact that he had chosen to live there, in the very rooms where they had said their good-byes. And, perhaps, for him, that is more than enough. Any words beyond those actions would be... unnecessary.

Shivering with her almost-constant, icy companionship as her heart line decays, Alice watches him from the depths of the orchard, heart aching and breaths wheezing with unshed tears. She is still unsure if the task that the Fates had set her is a blessing... or a torment. And when she at last turns away, it is with both satisfaction and regret.

Leaving the castle is easier than entering it had been, in the end. She merely waits for the guards to be distracted by a group of courtiers making their whispering way through the gardens and slips out beyond the gate. The exertion is brief, but it makes her weakened heart pound and stutter. When she had checked earlier, she had confirmed that her heart line is now completely gray and the Heart Mark has begun to crumble and blur. It had happened much faster than she'd expected and can only assume that as her task has drawn to an end so has her reason to Fight against Death.

It won't be long, now, she knows. She must leave very soon if she is to receive her reward from the Fates and return home to her husband and her son, but there is one more thing she would like to do – one more thing she, perhaps, _must _do – before she departs...

And there!

Through the trees, Alice sees a flash of murky grayish white, the matted coat of a large and terrible beast. She steps off the trail and heads for him until she finds herself in a small clearing, facing the Bandersnatch.

The meeting is brief, but necessary.

Mindful of spies, she instructs her future ally in the softest of voices, "Ally yourself with the Red Queen so that when Alice arrives, you will be able to help her. And allow yourself to be entrusted with guardianship over the Vorpal Sword. Alice will need it, when the time comes." Eyes watering from his pungent smell, Alice leans back and asks, "Do you think you can do all of that?"

And when he assures her that he can, Alice has no reason to linger. She tells herself that there is no need to entertain the overwhelming urge to see her future lover once more; she will have him in her arms again soon. Very soon. All that she must do is let go of _this _Underland, where she no longer has a place, where she does not belong.

This is the moment, then. The instant she had acquiesced to the Fates' request for. She can only pray that she has put her friends and future husband on the path that will lead to peace, to the White Queen, and – she selfishly and desperately hopes – to the birth and life of Tamial Hightopp.

Her heart struggles and aches in counterpoint to the chill beneath her skin as she turns her gaze upward, closes her eyes, and whispers the fateful words, "Fates of Underland, I Court Thee..."

And after a moment of windless silence, of Stopped Time, They Accept.

* * *

Alice opens her eyes and lets out a sigh of relief at the sight that greets her:

The Mock Turtle, the Sheep, and the Knight.

All three stand to the side of the single torch in the long, black hall that Alice suspects is both Nowhere and Everywhere. For, truly, where else could she possibly hide from Death? The chill that had begun to harden her heart is gone, numb, and the relief is such that, had there been a chair present, Alice would have damned her pride and collapsed into it.

"Well done, Your Majesty," the Sheep congratulates her.

"I couldn't have done better myself!" the Knight proclaims, applauding vigorously.

The Mock Turtle sniffles and weeps, his beaky mouth curved up at the ends in a bitter-sweet smile. "You followed our instructions to the letter!"

"Instructions?" Alice queries. "The collection of the Oraculum from the Duchess and delivery of it to Absolem?"

"As well as others," the ewe warbles.

The Knight takes it upon himself to begin a tallying of Alice's accomplishments:

"You awakened Mallymkun!"

"Sent the Bandersnatch to his post!"

"Tempted the Cheshire Cat into just enough politicking!"

"Modeled for the Champion's armor!"

"Informed everyone that the Right Alice would slay the Red Queen's Jabberwocky!"

"You prepared the Hatter for his destiny: the training, the prophecy, the Pishsalver, and, most importantly, the haircut."

"Very true," the Knight points out. "One cannot be a ragamuffin on the battlefield and expect to win."

"In short," the Sheep summarizes, "you completed your task perfectly."

"Yes, yes," the Knight quickly agrees. "I don't think any additional prophetic dreams will be necessary to keep things on course. We can allow the March Hares a rest."

The Mock Turtle turns to Alice and says with rare gentleness, "You brought all things to bear on the future you lived, precisely." He sniffles. "Right down to Tamial, the next Hightopp, the next Master of Time."

"I'm glad," Alice sighs, beyond relieved.

"Time isn't," the Knight remarks. "But that's another matter."

"And you are weary," the Mock Turtle observes, his droopy-lidded eyes still glistening with tears.

She nods. "I'm ready to go home."

"That we can do, dear. If you'll but follow that door there—" The Sheep points down the long, black hall to the door opposite the one that Alice had used at the inception of her quest. "—it will lead you back to your home—"

"Your room—"

"And your very bed, night clothes and Hightopp-fashioned hatpin wedding ring," the Knight assures her.

Alice smiles. "And into my husband's arms..."

She is of half a mind to simply rush to the door – as fast as her exhaustion will allow – and throw herself across the threshold, but she pauses, turns her full attention toward the Fates, intends to express her thanks. It would only be polite to do so! (It amazes her, in an abstract sort of way, that she no longer wishes to scream-blame-accuse them of killing her husband. Not when she is _this close_ to having him back! Her rage at their blatant manipulation subsides in the face of this miracle which will make everything Right again!)

She smiles at the Fates...

… and pauses.

Looking from one guilty, uncomfortable expression to another, Alice hears herself croak out, "What?"

"Er..." the Knight says.

"Well, dearie..."

"Oh! Tell her!" the Mock Turtle moans.

Although Death had been halted in his tracks and Alice no longer endures the chill of his Advance, she shudders as a cold fear dances through her body, prickling her skin and stopping her breath. "Tell me what?" she mouths, her voice as soft as a snowfall without wind.

"Death..." the Sheep begins.

"... is rather beyond us to undo," the Knight admits. "We are Fate and our domain is over the living."

"Oh, we can snip a thread," the Sheep admits.

"But once gone, it's Gone For Good!" the Mock Turtle sniffles. "The dead no longer have a fate, you see."

"Yes, it's quite beyond us to call someone back," the Knight concludes. "A problem I have bent my mind upon time and time again, I assure you!" His rush to explain does nothing to calm Alice, who fears her very next breath will shatter her, destroy her. "But there it is," the white-haired, be-armored man-Fate says. "There's not a thing _we_ can do to put Tarrant Hightopp's soul back into his body."

"The scar, now that it has accomplished its Intent... that can be removed," the Sheep offers but the comfort of the words is cold because...

"But you cannot make his heart beat again," Alice concludes.

The Mock Turtle slowly shakes his head. "Nor breathe life back into his lungs."

"Only the one who restores his soul to his body can accomplish those things," the Sheep explains. "And we have no influence over those in Death's domain."

"We are so _very _sorry," the Mock Turtle murmurs on a wet sob.

"But we thank you most sincerely for your assistance!" the Knight cheers.

Alice is unaware of her actions until she feels her right hand reach for and grasp the pommel of her sword. "This... is _not_ acceptable," she growls, recovering from her shock and riding the high, hot tide of betrayal. "You _killed_ him so that I might Court you!"

"Well, we could hardly send you a message, could we?" the Knight protests.

"We tried, you know," the turtle sighs out. "But you've never been able to properly decode March Hare mumblings."

"And I'm afraid Uplander minds don't take well to Prophetic Dreams," the Sheep explains.

Alice goggles at them. "That does not change the fact that _you three_ destroyed my life to right your own mistake!"

"Er..."

"Well..."

"Oh...!"

The Knight glances at the Sheep who shares a chagrined look with him. "I suppose we _did_ do that," the Knight admits.

"Leave me out of this!" the Mock Turtle cries. "I wanted no part of this misery to begin with!"

"And yet that is your very area of specialization," the Sheep argues.

"Regrets! I am the embodiment of Regrets, you wool-minded, knitting-needle-capped bleater!"

The Knight hurries to circumvent the brewing argument from escalating. "A mere slip of the tongue! Let's focus now, everyone!"

"Indeed," Alice growls. She lunges with speed that her aged body should not permit and pulls the Knight away from the relative safety of his companions. She locks one arm around him and presses the hunting knife they had equipped her with against the underside of his chin.

"Tell me," she croaks in the infinite and shocked silence of the black, Hallowed Halls of Time, "how to save my husband's life."

The Sheep and the Mock Turtle stare at her and at the embodiment of the Future, a hostage in her arms. She half expects them to vanish the knife from her grasp and simply kill her, but they do not.

Quickly, she presses her advantage. "You said," she grits out, "that _you_ could not save him, but you did not say that _I _could not. Tell me what I must do."

"Only the impossible," the Sheep says stiffly.

The Mock Turtle shakes his head. "Dreadfully difficult."

"That has never stopped me before and it will not now."

"Well, you'll accomplish nothing by Killing the Future," the ewe informs her haughtily.

Alice must admit – although she does so with reluctance – that the Sheep is correct. She lowers the knife from the Knight's throat and spins him around. "You have investigated nearly all there is to investigate," she says to him. "All of you created and keep Underland—" This she directs to all three.

"Technically, there are not three of us."

"Nor is there one of us or a hundred of us."

"Fate is very fickle that way."

Alice refuses to allow the riddles they speak to distract her from her goal. "One or a thousand," she says, dismissing their number as irrelevant, "you _know_ how it can be done. Tell me."

When no one rushes to comply, she reminds them, "I _have_ done you a service!"

"And services demand payment," the Knight acknowledges with a sage nod.

"But what a waste of a request!" the Mock Turtle despairs.

"Yes," the Sheep agrees kindly. "You'll do better to ask for your own kingdom, Your Majesty. Or an auspicious future for your son and his descendants. Those things we can guarantee. This... other thing..."

"You will fail!" the Mock Turtle chokes out, bawling.

"And our debt to you will not be paid," the Knight explains, eyeing the knife that she still holds with what can only be curiosity in his eyes.

"Then you'd best give me as much assistance as possible with this," Alice replies, "to ensure that I do _not _fail."

The Mock Turtle sniffles.

The Sheep sighs.

The Knight declares, "She's rather stubborn, isn't she?"

"Quite," the ewe agrees. "Very well, Champion of the White Queen, wife of Tarrant Hightopp, Lady of Iplam, Alice Kingsleigh of London. If this is your request, then we will oblige."

"And _when _I succeed," Alice deliberately expresses, her suspicion of them manifesting into a bitter taste on the back of her tongue, "I will be in my husband's arms and he will be _alive_ and _well._ We will have our family, our _son_ , and our future will be before us."

"Just as the Past will forever be behind you," the Mock Turtle agrees.

"And the Present your omniscient shadow," the Sheep concurs.

Having received their word and unable to detect any notes of trickery or miscommunication, Alice sheathes her knife.

The Knight smiles and does not make her ask yet _again_ for the information she seeks. "All – and everything – you must do is as simple as following the light at the end of the tunnel, and then closing your eyes and ears to the Beyond..."

"You may call out to the Hatter, but you must not hear his answer..."

"And you may wander as far and as wide as you like, for as all roads in life lead to Death, all roads in death lead to Life..."

"But in death you will join him should you see or hear or touch or smell or taste anything in that realm."

"Do you understand, Your Majesty?" the Sheep challenges. "This is impossible."

Alice replies, "I may call but must not hear. I may walk but must not feel or see. I may open my mouth but must not taste. I may breathe but must not smell. Yes, I understand."

"And," the Mock Turtle informs her sadly, "despite all that, he may chose to _not_ return with you. The choice must be his, you know, and his family is there with him, welcoming him and healing him. Should he return with you, he will recall none of that."

"They will be lost to him again," the Sheep elaborates.

Alice pauses. She considers that for a long moment. And then, closing her eyes briefly, she swallows down her regret, clears her throat and speaks. "He will choose me," Alice asserts with quiet confidence. Tarrant had promised her that: he had sworn that he would always choose he-and-she over all else. "What dangers will I face? And Tarrant? What dangers are there for him?"

"Only two," the Knight replies. "The one previously mentioned – if you perceive the Beyond, you will be bound there. And one other – you may call, but _anyone _may hear you... and answer. There is no way for you to prevent another soul from following you back to Life and into your husband's body."

"Tarrant himself will have to fight off the innumerable others who thirst for life," the Mock Turtle bluntly states and Alice shivers.

The Sheep checks once more, "Are you sure of this path, dear? Death is seductive to many of those in its realm and hungry souls that _do _exist will be ruthless in their pursuit of you. He is happy there, at peace. In Calling him, you will be asking more of him than you will ever know..."

Her half-hardened heart aches at the thought of asking him to fight yet again. But she knows that, should she change her mind and return without him, she will die and Tamial will be alone, and Tarrant will be utterly disappointed in her for failing their son.

This time, unlike over the duration of her assignment in the past, she has a choice. This time, it will be only herself she can blame if things go horribly wrong: if Tarrant does not choose her or if he cannot fight off the souls hungering for life again. She may awaken in her bed, with her husband's body in her arms and the soul of a stranger behind his eyes. But if she returns without trying, if she gives up on him – on _them – _now...

She has a choice. A terrible choice. And the choice _must _be hers.

She makes it:

"I am sure. I will fetch him from Beyond."

The Sheep shakes her head in silence.

The Mock Turtle weeps anew.

The Knight steps toward her, curves a gentle arm around her shoulder and turns her toward the torch on the black marble wall. "Then into the tunnel you go, Champion."

"The tunnel?" she checks, looking from him to the flame upon the torch.

"Yes," he reminds her kindly, "the light at the end of the tunnel we mentioned. Here it is."

"But it is only a light..." Alice protests weakly. "There is no tunnel."

"Hence the impossibility!" the Sheep asserts.

Alice looks away from her as the Knight clucks his tongue at his woolly companion in censure. "Now, now, the Uplander mind is not a thing to be underestimated!" He turns to Alice and, expression eager, he says, "I know you will find a way, as you so often have done before, to save those you love. Show us your Uplander Logic, Champion, and solve this conundrum for me once and for all, for it has vexed me so!"

She turns away from his encouragement, unsure if she ought to be wary of it or soothed by it, and gazes at the flame. The light. The light at the end of the tunnel. She sighs. It is a riddle, of course. Which means she must _solve _it.

Very well.

There is a light at the end of a tunnel; that is given. And if the _light _is here, and it is at the _end _of the tunnel, then that means...

She steps forward, away from the Knight.

"It is as simple – _and_ impossible – as passing through the light at the end of the tunnel," she muses, staring at the burning flame. The flame dances at her in reply. But no... the flame is not shaking and sliding and shivering... _She _is.

"Impossible..." Alice murmurs. _Yes, six impossible things,_ she suddenly – desperately! – thinks. Alice strides forward, very much afraid, toward the fire and the heat it radiates and the marble wall and the tunnel that she Believes lies beyond. The Knight, the Sheep, and the Mock Turtle fade from her awareness, until only the flame remains. "Six impossible things. Count them, Alice."

She takes a deep, rattling breath. "One, I am the White Queen's Champion, and Champion of all of Underland."

She fists her hands and glares into the light. It brightens – whitens – little by little until a strange glow begins to encircle the flame.

"Two, I will be loved by a man who admires my muchness."

The white light pulses brighter, reaching further and she leans toward it slightly but does not step forward. Not yet.

"Three, our hearts will speak to each other."

Her eyes water as the intensity of the glow grows. She swallows thickly, but there is no moisture to be had in her sticky-yet-dry throat and mouth.

"Four, we will fight the technologies of Upland – Progress itself – and _win_."

She can no longer ignore the heat from the flame now, only it is no longer a single torch. It is a _wall_ of pure white, seething energy.

"Five," she rasps, barely hearing her own voice. "We will Stop Time."

The roar of the light is all she can hear. The brightness of it is all she can see. It surrounds her. And she knows what she must do now. The last impossible thing – the one she must believe in at all costs!

"Six!" she shouts on a breathless scream. "I will enter the land of Death to bring my husband back to Life!"

And then Alice closes her eyes... and takes a step forward.

The heat licks up her foot, her shin, her knee and it is so absolute that she is only marginally aware of her own scream of agony.

_Tarrant!_

She completes that step and lurches forward, takes another. The fire, the light, the energy is all around her, burning her, blistering her skin and eating away at her flesh. She feels it on her tongue and she breathes it in through her nose.

_Tarrant!_

It licks at her ears and eyelids and hands and fingertips and she wants it _all to stop!_ this is _too much she __**cannot bear this any longer!**_ what must she do to make it _stop, stop, __**stop!**_ _do not turn back_! _no turning back!_ the pain is _EVERYWHERE_ and there is _no escaping it will NOTHING STOP THIS AGONY __**PLEASE!**_

_TARRANT!_

Perhaps she screams his name. Perhaps she does not scream at all.

Suddenly, her wish is granted and there is only silence, darkness, numbness...

For a moment, she pants, catches her breath with air she cannot smell and cannot feel rushing down her throat. She breathes or, at least, she thinks she does. She has the barest notion of her chest expanding and then contracting again, but she cannot be sure. Perhaps she is dead. Perhaps she is not.

There is only one way, now, to know for sure.

Feeling weak, lost, uncertain and helpless, Alice strangles back her fear and takes her first step into what lies Beyond.

* * *

Notes:

1. In OPK Book 1, Mally expresses her surprise in Tarrant's proficiency in warcraft:

_"Your form's pretty good," Mally tells the Hatter. "I didn't know you knew how to fight with staffs."_

Yes, we saw Tarrant fighting the Gray Lady with a staff/stave in Book 5, but he was pretty wretched at it. So, somewhere along the line, he made it a point to improve his skills in that... and Mally either didn't notice or wasn't privy to it.

2. Also, you may have noticed (a tiny bit) that Mally's accent isn't as heavy as it used to be (at the beginning of Book 5). That comes with living at Mamoreal, I suppose. When in Rome... and since Mirana is Mally's sovereign, Mally sometimes feels an inclination to use Court Speech (or make her best attempt at it, anyway).

3. If you read carefully, you might have picked up a bit about the Fates... or is it Fate, singular? Hrm... interesting, yes?

* * *

End of Chapter 10: Scenes 1 & 2


	184. Book 5, The Light at the End, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Ten: The Light at the End  
**_

[Scene 3 of 3]

Love.

Love is a _ place _ and it is Here.

He breathes in Peace and exhales Happiness.

The warmth of his Fa and his Mam, his aunts and uncles and cousins and grandparents and every Hightopp who ever lived and died, embraces him. Welcomes him.

He is home.

He only wishes he could share it all with Alice.

They like her, his wife. His family whispers into his mind: _ She is good to ye and to Underland_, they say. _ We love her as our daughter. _

_ Do ye forgive me for not saving ye? _ he eventually asks them, when his awe has turned to wonderment and then acceptance: he is with them again – he has found those he had lost so many years ago!

And they reply, _ Ye could not save us and we have forgiven the ones who hurt us. _

He understands; it would be a waste, indeed, to pollute this beauty with such rancid and fetid emotions as hate and hostility.

And they whisper, _ Come with us, son... _

And he wants to. But he feels something dragging him back, something that makes it more difficult than it ought to be to follow that beacon of infinity.

_ Thrice a-Vowed_, his Mam murmurs and he feels her warmth against him. _ She will come soon and ye twine will travel to our Iplam here. _

_ Then I will wait_, he decides.

_ 'Tis dangerous_, his Fa warns.

And Tarrant replies, rhymes, _ Danger is no stranger to me. _

_ Aye, I know. _

_ We will wait with ye_, the voices of his cousins insist and he feels the ancestors he has never met in life surround him in a protective circle. And they Share. They Share all that the Hightopps had lived. The memories are not his, but he shares in the triumphs and joys that they reveal. And as one recollection after another tickles his mind and his being – whatever he is here! – Tarrant comes to realize that he has no notion or feeling of time passing here.

_ Of course_, a saganistute voice answers his wordless wondering. _ That sort of thing is for the living. _

_ So there is no way to know how much time has passed for the ones left behind? _

_ Ye could check... _

_ But we do not advise it._

_ Aye, should ye find them in pain or sorrow, ye will not be able to soothe them._

_ 'Tis best to let them heal._

_ And join us when it is their time to do so._

The thought of Alice, in pain and enduring it for the sake of Underland and their son, disturbs him and his worry ripples out into the Everything. His family replies with waves of reassurance.

_ Pain be naught but a transitory thing, lad_, a voice that sounds very much like his Inner Self counsels him and Tarrant is unsure if he should thank that contributor, or if the words had truly come from himself and he is _ still _ mad here...

_ Not mad, my son_, his Mam insists gently in that mam-ish way of hers that he had sometimes heard from Alice when she had spoken to their son. _ Never mad. _

_ Aye_, his Fa tells him. _ Ye had no need of my warnings. _

_ Ye're of the wily Hightopps. _

_ And those given to passion._

_ Genius often seems a mite strange, e'en to the thinker._

The praise is unexpected and makes him feel oddly off balance, makes him long for home and Alice-smiles and Alice-whispers. "Perhaps I'm mad," he would have said. "All the best people are," she would have answered.

_ And she'll say so again_, someone Tarrant does not know very well (yet) replies.

And then, without warning, an awareness swims through the moment, touching and moving through everyone, although Tarrant – still new and unsure here – does not feel it himself and he asks, _ What is it? _

_ A Call. _

_ Do ye hear it?_

Tarrant concentrates, stretches his being further than he has tried since arriving here, reaches out into the Great Beyond and listens...

"... like a writing desk?"

He gasps, moves closer to that voice, that latter half of so familiar a riddle. A riddle that their son is the consummate solution to.

Silence resonates and then the voice – a woman's voice, an _ Alice _ voice – comes again:

"Have I made a rhyme?"

_ ALICE! _ He rushes toward her, his family following, guarding him.

_ Take care, lad. _

_ Aye, if ye can hear the Call, then so can the others._

_ The others? _ he spares a thought to ask.

As one, the ancestors reply: _ Those that thirst for life. _

His Mam says, _ She is Calling ye back to Life, my son. _

_ But ye do not have to follow_, his Fa continues. _ If ye do, ye'll remember naught of this place or us. _

_ We can protect her from the others until she departs. _

_ We'll not let anyone claim yer body and yer name, yer home and yer son, lad. _

_ Yer Alice has our protection until she finds the end of the path._

_ Won_'_t be long now... _

_ Ye could stay_, his Fa invites gently.

Tarrant does not slow his rush toward her, his wife and her Call. For a moment, he can barely comprehend that she is truly Here, that she has come for him, that she _ can _ do the very thing that she seems to be doing...

_ Son? _ his Fa asks, awaits his answer.

_ Of course I'll follow her, Fa. She's my Alice. _

_ Then we will help ye. _

_ But heed us well: ye must not try to touch or speak to her. She is yet of the living and, as such, she must know nothing of this place or here she must remain._

_ And leave young Tamial Hightopp alone._

_ And none of us want that, lad._

Tarrant struggles to understand. A half-formed, dark and disturbing notion whispers to him... a thought that he does not want to have, to contemplate. Hesitantly, he dares only: _ Alice...? _

_ Mayhap it would be better if ye didn_'_t look now, lad. _

_ Aye, she's come through the light at the end of the tunnel..._

But he ignores the vague warnings and his own unease. Suddenly, he is There, only a breath away from his wife... and he knows she is his wife because he can see her mouth move and hear her voice Call, "Have you any idea why a raven is like a writing desk?"

Oh, he does! He _ does! _ And he struggles not to answer, to maintain the silence his family had counseled him to keep. And only when his overwhelming emotions manage to fizzle and burn and abate does he notice...

He _ notices _ ...!

Alice, his Alice, looks nothing like the woman he had wed, in a ceremony for just the twine of them, on a blanket in the restored fields of Iplam. She moves through the Beyond, following a path that is of her own making, and yet she does not seem to feel her own progress. He studies her form and for a moment, he doesn't understand why she is treading through the realm of Death with no clothing whatsoever. Nor does he understand why her skin is shiny and smooth, her head bald of hair and her eyelids fused shut and her ears... He gawks at the small, twisted bumps of flesh. They look more like blisters than anything else and... He glances down her left arm and stares at the remains of her heart line. It is a twisted, muted, dark line along her too-smooth skin, looking like so much spilled wax from a gray, tapered candle...

_ She came through the light, lad. _

The light, Tarrant thinks.

And then he Understands.

Alice, his Alice, has done the impossible. She has ensured that she cannot hear, see, or feel the Beyond... by passing through light, through fire and flame, and allowing it to burn away her nerves, to melt her very flesh over her eardrums and eyes...

"I'm considering things that begin with the letter _M_," she says in her perfectly preserved Alice-voice.

The sound of it, so pure and true, coming from this ruined and mutilated body, makes him want to weep.

_ Hush, my son. She will heal when her journey is finished. _

_ How much longer? _ he asks his Mam.

_ Soon_, his Fa replies. _ But the others are coming. _

_ Draw your sword, Tarrant, son of the Clan Hightopp, Laird of Iplam_, an ancient voice commands and, unthinking and uncaring of the fact that he is dead and composed of only spirit, Tarrant obeys... and finds himself clutching a frightfully bright claymore. The last time he had held one of these, he had stood upon a battlefield, next to a young woman who had already won his heart and had been destined to win Underland back for the White Queen.

And then the enemy arrives.

The others, he discovers, are Many.

His family pulls close to him, to Alice as she continues, one mindless step at a time, to move through the realm she cannot yet know. Tarrant is beside her, around her, behind her, beneath her, above her, swinging his blade with precision that comes from the clarity of his mind, the sharpness of his intent, the sureness of his purpose:

These booly-gebbing, ghoulish fiends would follow his Alice back to Iplam, back to their house, back to _ their bed and into _ _ **his body and—!** _

_ Focus now, lad. _

He does.

The Hightopps pull in close against the desperate, seething rabble and Tarrant is reminded of that battlefield again, of the Hightopp colors he had clothed himself in as he'd taken up the mantle that the Gray Lady – his Alice, his _ widow _ – had offered him so long ago. The spirits of his clan become those colors now, weaving themselves into a tight defense as they speed around him in the windless silence.

_ We can keep the hordes back. _

_ But beware, lad. If one of these creatures _ _ **knows** _ _ yer Alice... _

_ It will be up to me_, he acknowledges grimly, not letting down his guard. His Alice has made enemies, he knows. He waits. They will hear her Call and they will come...

"What is impossible for two champions of Underland to accomplish together?" she asks and her voice rings out like the pealing of silver bells.

_ Nothing, my Alice_, he wishes he could say. _ There is nothing we cannot accomplish together. _

Tamial is proof of that. The new Hightopp Village is proof of that. The continuing peace in Underland is proof of that.

And when he awakes beside her in their bed in Iplam, both of them healthy and whole and alive...

Yes, there is nothing they cannot do, no enemy they cannot defeat... together.

_ Brace yourself, lad! _

_ We cannot stop this one! _

_ Stang!_

_ And another! Orgal!_

Tarrant moves as swiftly as he can, careful not to touch her, to jar her, to awaken Alice to this world of which she must not become a citizen. Not yet!

The claymore slashes and gleams as a pair of dark shapes approach, retreat, circle.

_ Move aside, Hightopp. Your time with Alice is over. _

_ Never, Knave. 'Tis ye who have no place here! Be gone! _

Tarrant keeps his attention on Stayne and also on the silent, cunning figure that he somehow knows is the former Viscount Valereth even though the creature has yet to speak. He keeps his sword at the ready, focuses on each of his adversaries as they move this way and that, testing his defense.

_ Soon, son. Very soon now. _

But it may not be soon enough. He needs Alice's help to keep _ both _ of these villains back and _ they know it! _

_ You can_'_t stop _ _ **both** _ _ of us_, Stayne remarks. _ I promise I'll not harm your spawn nor your piddly little village. I'll be a good husband to your lovely wife, even if I must do so from within your wretched body. You know Valereth over there won _ ' _ t make the same vow. _

_ True or not _ , Tarrant growls, not taking his attention off of Valereth despite his reply to Stayne, _ I'll not let _ _ **either** _ _ of you cross over! _

_ Still mad_, Stayne responds with a sigh.

"All the best people are," Alice says at precisely that moment, causing an eerie chill to shimmer through Tarrant.

Stayne draws his long-sword.

Valereth presents a rapier.

Tarrant renews his grip on the claymore...

_ Hold steady, lad! _

_ Two more!_

_ Two? _ Tarrant despairs. How-ever will he defend his Alice against _ four _ ghouls when he fears he cannot manage these _ two? _

They come as twin streaks of black... They come, but they do not approach either he or Alice. They _ slam _ into the poised forms of Stayne and Valereth, knocking them back through the swirling tartan of the Hightopp Clan and into a very far and wide Great Beyond.

_ Scum! _ the first creature shrieks after the Knave, and Tarrant gapes. He knows that screech. It had threatened to take off his head at least once...!

_ Iracebeth of Crims_, he marvels even as the second creature coalesces slowly on his right. _ Why...? _

_ True_, she admits with such haughty authority that Tarrant can almost feel the cold weight of irons locked around his wrists and ankles and his bruised knees throbbing against the stone steps of her royal dais. _ I hold no love for either you or that _ _ **Alice**__, but I have even _ _ **less** _ _ for that wretch! _

And with that, she speeds away. Presumably in pursuit of her prey.

Tarrant turns swiftly to the man now eyeing his wife and Tarrant's claymore appraisingly.

_ I can_'_t say I'm not tempted_, the once-was Lord Oshtyer admits, _ but the two of you avenged me. Consider this a token of my... appreciation. _

_ We shall_, Tarrant replies as the creature spins and soars off.

_ Nearly there, son_, his Mam assures him.

_ Don_'_t lower that claymore! _

_ Aye! Thrice more! _

What? _ Why? _ Who _ else _ had Alice angered enough to prompt this kind of attack?

He tries not to panic and waits for what is coming...

And come it does, but it is not an attack.

_ Tarrant_, a woman's voice calls to him and he finds himself lowering his weapon.

_ Madam Kingsleigh! _

_ Oh, honestly. How often do I have to tell you to call me _ _ **Helen** _ _ ? _

_ Too many, I'm sure_, he admits with delight. He turns to yet another familiar presence. _ Lord Ascot! _

_ Hello, again, lad. Done rather well for yourselves, haven_'_t you? _

Before Tarrant can fight back the emotion that clogs his throat at the man's obvious pride, a third being moves forward.

_ A pleasure to finally meet you, Lord Hightopp. Charles Kingsleigh. _

_ The pleasure is mine, sir. _ He reaches out to clasp the man's hand. _ I'm sorry I never had the chance to ask you personally for your blessing... for Alice and myself... _

The man chuckles warmly. _ Oh, gracious, Topps. I gave it to you the moment you made up a seat for my little girl at your tea table. _

And to that, Tarrant has no answer. Nothing except, _ It is an honor to meet you. I regret, very deeply, that I will not recall doing so upon my return with Alice... _

_ Ah, but that is what dreams are for! _ The specter grins and winks. _ Oh, what marvelous dreams the living may have... and who knows what will come to you in one of them! _

Tarrant is in unabashed awe of the man. _ Your daughter has your masterful logic, sir. And your know-how, Lord Ascot. And _ _ **your** _ _ muchness, madam. _

_ I should think so! _ Ascot agrees happily.

_ And we could not be more proud of her for that_, Helen says.

_ Nor could we possibly love her more_, Charles adds.

_ Should I dream your words one night, madam, sirs, I will tell her you said so_, he promises.

_ You do that_, she remarks kindly. _ Now off with you. It's time. _

Tarrant startles. _ Mam? Fa? _

_ One more step, luvie_, his Mam says.

_ We_'_ll be here when ye're ready to join us_, his Fa says.

_ We love ye. _

_ Ye've made us proud._

_ Long live the Clan Hightopp_ , the ancient voices intone.

And then Alice takes that one more step and the world before her parts, like a curtain of water, revealing a room and a bed – a scene – that he recognizes. There is no time for farewells, but, then again, once upon a time, an old Gray Lady had advised him to avoid them as much as possible.

So he does.

He steps with her, follows her home, and knows that he will be forgiven his abrupt departure. Still, he _ will _ apologize – later, _ much _ later! – when he returns to the Beyond, after _ all _ of his and Alice's journeys have been ventured... and gained. 

* * *

Notes:

1. What is Tarrant's father talking about when he says his son had no need of his warnings about the madness? Well, he's talking about insanity - true madness. He is referring to a condition that is chronic and erupts at the slightest provocation. Yes, Tarrant is _mad..._ but he never went off for no reason at all. His father had warned him of a madness that would consume him, a madness that he would be a slave to. But even before Tarrant and Alice started the Thrice a-Vow, I always felt he was very in-control of himself (precarious as that seemed at times). In the novels and in the film, I felt he was more of a genius than a madman... but, as Tarrant's family points out, sometimes craftiness and passion and genius can seem, well, _mad._

2. I have received second-degree burns before and OW. OK? OW. Third-degree burns actually kill the nerves and don't leave you in as excruciating pain as the second-degree variety. (Thank you, doctor, for explaining my agony as the "perfect" balance between hurting one's self Too Much and Not Enough.) Alice becomes numbed when she passes through the light. She is also healed because otherwise... eugh. You know? Burn sores weeping fluids... Just eugh. So, she is – for all intents and purposes – a victim of third-degree burns who has been healed super-fast and is scarred pretty much everywhere. This is not a major plot point. As we'll see in the next chapter, Tarrant's mother is correct – there are no traces of the burns on Alice when she returns to Underland. Still, it took some guts to go through with that – walk through fire, I mean – in first place.

3. When Charles says he gave Tarrant and Alice his blessing the moment Tarrant made up a seat for his "little girl" at the tea table, he is referring to a 19-year-old Alice. The Hatter never welcomes or makes up a seat for Alice in Lewis Carroll's books.

4. Alice's journey here might sound somewhat familiar (especially to those of you who are fans of Greek mythology) as this is a variation of Orpheus' tale. Orpheus, a musician, strikes a bargain with Hades (I think? Not sure. Too lazy to check.): Orpheus may fetch his dead lover from the depths of the Underworld but he must trust her to follow him back to the land of the living and not look back once. While that story ends tragically (Orpheus looks back despite the warning and... yeah), this story, thankfully, does not end like that.

5. What is the Great Beyond? Well, I don't describe it as a physical place because, honestly, it isn't. I mention Tarrant shaking hands with Charles, but that isn't really what happens. There is a gesture that is like shaking hands that they do but as neither of them have actual, physical hands... or bodies... Well, you get the idea. If they' d had hands, they would have shaken. So there.

* * *

End of Chapter 10


	185. Book 5, The Hightopps of Iplam, 1 of 2

This entry is rated **M** for semi-explicit sexual content.

* * *

_**Chapter Eleven: The Hightopps of Iplam**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

* * *

Alice opens her eyes and squints against the glow of the dawn-light seeping into the room through the window. For a minute, she is oddly disoriented – Where is she? How had she gotten here? Why does she feel so... light? – and then her arms throb, ache, and twinge.

Her gaze passes over familiar bedroom walls and a mussed bed to the warm body lying rather heavily across her lap.

Tarrant.

She blinks at his not-so-pale, not-so-stained face and not-so-short, not-so-orange hair. She studies the fine wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth and the gray hairs at his temples and...

"Tarrant!" she rasps, watching one of her own youthful-and-familiarly-scarred hands reach for his chest and press against his Heart Mark. His _perfect _Heart Mark.

The scar is gone. Gone as if it had never been. The Fates had kept their word about _this_, at least!

A sob of joy catches in her throat.

"Tarrant! Wake up! You're home!"

But he does not wake. He stares up at nothing and does not breathe. Within his chest, his heart does not beat.

A flash of panic explodes through Alice, streaks down her heart line – which is far from numb and crumbly now! – and she feels Tarrant's heart thump once beneath her hand in response. Once, and then... nothing.

_No. _

_NO!_

"Tarrant!" she hisses, mindful of their son who is still sleeping down the hall.

He does not answer, does not blink, does not twitch at that tone of voice which has _always_ made him jerk in response. It is her Widow's Voice, Alice realizes tangently, the tone she had used on him when she had been old and gray and his self-appointed mentor.

He does not recognize it now.

"You _will _come back to me," she informs him. She refuses to believe that he had chosen to remain Beyond. He would never... _never... _! Not knowing what else to do or how else to elicit a heartbeat from him, Alice Pushes him through the heart line. She Sends him her fear and love and _need and NOW and—! _

His heart thumps again beneath her hand. Thumps once and only once.

"Brangergain...!" She lays him down against the pillows and scrambles upright. "Why can't things be bloody simple for once?" she grits out, crouching over him.

He doesn't answer.

"Live!" she commands, and it _is _a Command for she is a queen, is she not? At least, in the eyes of the Fates? Surely that must count for something! She presses her hand against his Heart Mark and – with everything in her that could possibly produce a Royal Decree – Orders his heart to beat.

Sluggishly, it does, but only in response to her regular and intentional manipulation of the heart line.

"Not enough," she mutters, struggling to stay calm, to think. She has nearly succeeded. _Nearly. _But she is forgetting something, missing something. What had the Fates told her? They could not make his heart beat again nor could they... what?

"Breathe life into him," she hears herself gasp.

She leans over him, presses her mouth to his slack lips even as she concentrates all her love for him into rhythmic pulses against his heart. She seals her lips against his and _gives _him the very breath from her own lungs.

It rushes out almost immediately through his nose and blows against her cheek.

"Bugger—!"

She steadies herself to try again. With her free hand, Alice reaches up and pinches his nose closed.

_I love you_, she Sends with yet another Push, another Jolt, another Shock.

She inhales deeply.

_I need you_, she Presses.

And she exhales all the breath she can manage into his mouth.

_Come back to me_, she Commands.

Beneath her hand, his chest rises just the smallest amount to accommodate the breath she had forced into his body.

_Tarrant, __**please!** _

_**Please!** _

_**PLEASE!** _

And then he's shuddering, twitching, coughing beneath her. His hands flail a bit, as if he has forgotten how to use them, before clutching at hers and pulling them just the slightest bit away – enough so that his nose is free and only her fingertips brush his chest. Alice coughs as well, as the gusts of unexpectedly expelled air puff into her mouth, and she leans back of her own volition, her gaze wide and desperate and seeking and...

Had she done it?

"Al—lice?" he wheezes thinly.

She clamps her jaw shut and stares in frantic silence at his fluttering eyelids, his roving and confused gaze, his gasping mouth. Recalling the Fates' warnings – remembering that this venture of hers may have failed, that it may not be her husband who has returned to her but another spirit from Beyond – Alice holds back her words of welcome and searches for something she can say, some question she could ask... the answer to which would _prove _that he is _hers _...

His brows twitch as he looks from her to his Heart Mark and his eyes widen when he sees it.

"The scar... Alice... my Alice, what have you done?"

"Everything," she replies, her temper momentarily overcoming her hesitance and fear. "Everything the Fates asked. Everything you didn't tell me I would have to do, you slurvish man."

"I..." His voice dies away as he takes in her expression: she doesn't doubt she looks as furious and frightened as she feels. "Aye, I am. An' aye, ye did," he admits solemnly. "I still remember ye... Gray Lady."

She dares to think, if only briefly: perhaps everything truly _is _fine and her husband is truly lying in their bed, looking up at her with grave understanding...

"I remember what ye did fer me," he whispers, not moving. "I have always remembered."

She knows. She knows he has despite his never having spoken of that time or of his mentor, for he had passed on those very lessons to her when she had asked for his help so long ago, when she had asked him to train her, to test her, to push her, to show her if she _could _be a Champion. And she recalls how – before Frabjous Day – he had hidden her with the aid of Pishsalver and an empty teapot, had recited the prophecy to her on the road to Iplam, had successfully tossed her to safety on his hat, had surrendered himself to capture, had lied to the Red Queen, had fought the Knave with little more than a perfume bottle and a powder puff, had stepped forward to protect her on the battlefield when she had needed help most...

"Other things..." he muses softly and uncertainly, "I cannot... Alice, where was I until you... before I opened my eyes just now?"

Honestly, she does not know more than the name of the place. She had heeded the Fates' warnings and invited the light to cauterize her senses before she had entered Beyond. "What do you remember?" she replies on a thread of sound, still terrified to hope but helplessly wishing-wanting-needing for it to be true that her husband has indeed come back to her!

"Dying," he replies, shuddering. "I remember dying and, before that, your tears." He lifts a hand to her dry cheeks. "I remember whispering to Tam..." He blinks, focuses, and then frowns thoughtfully. "He won't be needing that Answer to His Prayers, after all."

"T—Tarrant?" she stutters, unable to stop the momentum of her growing belief that it is truly _him! _

He startles, surprised at her hesitance. "Alice, are you expecting someone else?"

"_Are_ you someone else?"

He whispers, "To my knowledge... I'm precisely whom you see afore ye."

_Iambic pentameter_, she nearly informs him.

"Raven?" he worriedly prompts her.

Shivering, she reaches for his hands. "Why," she rasps, "have you never had your hair cut short... again?"

He studies her face, his expression only concerned and not cunning, not conniving or cheating. "I suppose... because there was never another need for it."

She waits, hovering over him, searching his face, needing just a _bit _more, just to be _sure. _

And he seems to understand: "My Alice, my wife, my Champion... my mentor and Gray Lady..."

Her fingers curl tightly around his hands.

He smiles, not seeming to mind the dig of her short nails into his skin. "You saved Underland... and _me _. Again."

"You _are _my Underland," she corrects him, and the tears follow the declaration. She gives in, for she does not have the strength to continue resisting her desire to believe, and presses her cheek against his, inhales his scent and sobs at the feel of his warmth.

"Hush, my Alice. Shush..." he breathes and brushes kisses against her ear and temple and cheek and jaw.

"You're really you," she chokes out, babbles madly, "the _right _you, the _proper _you and not some other you and I almost couldn't believe... Although I _did _believe, at first, and then they told me they wouldn't... _couldn't... _and I had to fetch you back myself and there were so many things that could have gone wrong and _now! _Now that you're here I _still _... I almost don't dare think that I'm truly seeing you again, that you're really _you _, that you came back with me, that I could _bring _you back and—!"

"Raven," he murmurs, wrapping his long, warm arms around her. "Where else would I be, were I given the merest possibility of choosing, than here? With you? In our home?"

His words echo through her memory and into the past, into a night when she had sworn not to let her own madness hurt him again, when she had offered to go and leave him in peace... and when he had promptly welcomed her home.

She presses herself more firmly against him, as if she could burrow into him. She seeks that connection, that tangible and corporeal proof that she is not—

"Is this a dream?" she croaks. Is it truly possible that she had watched him die, had bartered with the Fates for his life, had stepped back in Time to complete her task, and then had gone into the land of Death and Called him back to Life again?

Had she really done the Impossible?

"You could pinch me," he offers, holding her tighter.

"No, I couldn't," she replies. And then she kisses him. It is messy and rough and not at all practiced as the kisses of long-wedded couples more often than not are. She doesn't care. He rolls her beneath him, tucks her down into the bed and covers her with his body and she revels in his heat and the smoothness of his skin and the stirring of his breath and the fact that he is here and living and she has succeeded and their reward is nothing more and nothing less than—

"The future," she pants against his lips, wrapping her legs around his hips and crossing her ankles – locking her feet together – against the small of his back. "We have..."

"Yes. And we have our answer, Raven," he murmurs against her skin. "We have the answer to our riddle."

She sighs out more tears and tangles her fingers in his hair. "Tamial." Somehow, hearing this confirmation from her husband, makes her success more _real _than anything the Fates could have said to reassure her.

"Our son... who will likely be waking soon," Tarrant reminds her.

She sniffs back another round of tears and smiles. Leaning back, she looks into his eyes and says, "Hm... unless we're quiet."

Catching her meaning, he giggles and his brows wiggle. "An excellent point, my Alice. As always."

Always. She very much likes the sound of that word.

She reaches for him and with every brush of his lips and every caress of his hands against her skin, her fears and doubts – such stalwart companions over the time spent in the past – begin to fade.

"I have questions, Alice," he warns her as she shrugs out of her nightshirt. She pushes his sleeping trousers away and squirms out of her own. It is hard for her to comprehend that it has been days since she has made love with him and yet it has been only hours – and a sojourn in Death – for him.

"Ask them," she invites as she opens herself to him.

He tickles the swell of her breasts with butterfly kisses. "They will wait," he declares as he gently sheathes himself within her.

She clutches his sides – normally ticklish but never while they are like this, together, _one! _– and urges him to move. He covers her completely – his chest against hers and his lips pressed to her mouth and his hands cradling her face – and only then does he withdraw and then lever his hips forward again. He is alive and real and he is _himself _and she Knows this now more than ever before because he does _not _make love to her as she had – mistakenly – hoped he would.

They do not make love.

They make Life.

There is warmth and feeling and presence and here-and-now and there is no lust in his expression, no grasping for pleasure or test of wills to see how long she can last or how much he can give her. They move together because they can, because they fear, because they need, because they _are _.

They seek each other – make the path back to the state of being wherein they are Bound together; their heart lines (both healed and whole) blaze with heat – and find one another.

Alice does not come. She cries.

"I missed you," she whispers and he kisses her chin.

He does not find his release. He meets her gaze.

"You will never be forced to do so again."

"A promise..." she warns him gently as his hips press against hers one last time.

"I know," he says, simply.

She holds onto him for as long as she can, until exhaustion will no longer be ignored. They do not sleep, but clutch each other in the nest of their bed, bathed in the sunlight of a new day.

As she lies in his arms, she thinks of all the questions she could ask: Does he forgive her for all that the Gray Lady did, didn't, and could not do? Had he ever wanted to tell her about that time but simply couldn't? Will he understand that she is – and cannot be anything other than – a Champion...?

"Yes," he lisps, his breath stirring her hair, "you saved me, Alice."

It does not occur to her to question his impeccable timing. Perhaps he had read her questions through the heart line. Or perhaps he had used that unique sense of his to anticipate her needs.

She asks instead, "Did you ever suspect that I was... that I would... that the Gray Lady and I were one and the same? Before I asked you to give me this scar?"

"I never wanted to," he answers bluntly, his eyes nearly uniformly focused on the thin line spanning the front of her throat. "I put it out of my mind completely." And by the tone of his voice, Alice knows that he had done so intentionally. "The thought of you, my _widow_... The thought that I would ever be forced to leave you... alone... It was too much to bear."

"Did you ever consider... telling me? About the Gray Lady?"

"Aye, nearly," he admits. "Once, or mayhap twice. For th' most part, I let mae-self forget that time. 'Twas for the best. The memories were tae... much." He shifts then and pins her with a piercing, blue-green gaze even as she draws in a breath to reply. "An' I _know_ ye, Alice. If I'd'a told ye, ye would ha'asked mae th' ver' questions I was mae-self afraid teh answer."

And she knows he's right. She would have been Curious and she would have wanted to know more, either out of genuine interest or out of mindless jealousy. He had been right to allow himself to forget about the Gray Lady for as long as he could.

"You... cared for her... _me _. That me. Deeply," she whispers, studying his expression. "And I left you."

His lips curve into a sad smile. "And now I understand why."

She frowns. "Why did you think I...?" The flash of doubt in his gaze and the unsure pulse against her heart are enough of an answer. "Tarrant Hightopp, didn't you _know _how proud I was of you? How _badly _I wanted to stay?"

"I did," he confesses. "But while the Truth rings clear, Doubt often speaks louder and... over time – we hadn't been on the best of terms even then, Time and I – it became harder and harder to believe..."

"No," she answers his unfinished explanation. "No, that's not why I left. I never, not for one instant, felt disappointed in you. I never thought that you were... _lacking _in any way, Tarrant. Never. I knew you needed time and I worried that I might not be able to give that to you..."

He frowns and Alice realizes, suddenly, that for all that her husband _does _know about the Gray Lady, there is one thing she had kept from him. One thing that Mally must never have mentioned.

"I didn't have much time, when I Stepped into the past," she explains, her gaze drawn to the rich, deep blue mark on her skin that originates from her heart-line finger and ends fantastically over her heart. Alice shoulders aside her reluctance to admit her weakness, her failure, and says honestly, "From the moment you... died, I didn't have much time."

She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "I know... you asked me to live... for Tamial, but I... I'm sorry. I couldn't... _want _that enough. I needed you more than I wanted... And, little by little, the heart line began turning to ash. I had only those five days... I'm sorry."

When she looks into his eyes, he seems torn between sorrow and... something very much like pride but softer, better, muchier.

"I shouldnae ha'asked ye teh look afteh auwr ladling f'r me, Alice," he admits. "But I'm slurvish enough teh be glad tha' ye need me..."

"You silly... _man _," she replies on a teary huff. "I have _always _needed you."

"I know," he whispers and the words carry a Thank You that Alice never would have asked for... or needed. "You came for me," he says, not out of awe or amazement – for he Knows that of course she _would _do precisely that! – but as evidence of that claim.

She then answers the questions he has not yet asked and tells him of the Fates; she confirms the bargain she had made with them. She would have stopped there – she would have let him disregard her earlier babblings and think that she had simply traded her services for his soul – but he can sense that she is holding back.

"Tell me," he commands as absolutely as any king of Underland might.

And so she does. She tells him, watching his irises shift and deepen in color with the telling, of the limits to the Fates' powers and the memories he would lose should he choose to leave Beyond. And she apologizes for that: "You must have met your family again, your clan... and now you cannot remember having done so at all. I'm so sorry."

"I choose _us _, my Alice," he answers simply and with finality. "Now tell me of this epic rescue."

She tells him of the riddle she had solved, of the torch on the black wall and how it had really been the light at the end of the tunnel through which she had had to pass. She does not tell him of the flame or the pain, for truly he does _not _need to know any of that! But she _does _tell him of the nothingness she had ventured into and the risks she had taken, the strength and sacrifices she had demanded of him, the fear that it would all be for naught, that she would return without him and...

"Alice," he whispers, tears swimming in his cobalt eyes, "have you any idea _why _is a raven like a writing desk?"

It is the perfect thing for him to say here, now, in the wake of all the heartache and fear, the hardship and strife.

She returns his teary smile with one of her own.

"Yes," she answers simply, confidently, absolutely. She kisses away the tears that spill onto his cheeks, noticing his diminishing pallor; soon he will look himself again. "Do _you_ know why a raven is like a writing desk?" she invites softly.

His lips move against her cheek and he murmurs in a low, vibrating tone, "I haven't the slightest idea, my Alice."

His response is contrary to what she had expected. For a moment – the briefest of moments – Alice does not understand why he would say such a thing...

And then she _does._

It is not the _correct _answer; it is not the answer they had found together.

It is their _first _answer, back when they – when the two of them had first become a They – had been new and just Thrice a-Vowed. It is the answer they had shared back when a whole, wide, _wondrous _future had stretched out before them.

Just as it does now.

* * *

Notes:

1. Yes, in this chapter we got Tarrant's reason for never telling Alice about the Gray Lady: he put those memories out of his mind. ("Out of sight, out of mind" can have a very interesting interpretation in Underland. People can willfully forget about something unpleasant if they choose to do so.) We see here that Tarrant chose to forget about the Gray Lady, but not about the lessons, the prophecy, and so on. The fact that Tarrant could willfully forgot about the Gray Lady possibly also explains why he seems shocked to find himself in Iplam again in the film. "It was here..." he tells Alice, looking around the clearing and seeming startled. (Really, he shouldn't have been surprised to find himself there after going off on Chessur at the tea party, yes? So, I'm thinking that maybe he made himself "forget" a lot of what happened... in order to move forward and do what had to be done.)

* * *

[End of Chapter 11: Scene 1]


	186. Book 5, The Hightopps of Iplam, 2 of 2

_**Chapter Eleven: The Hightopps of Iplam**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

* * *

Tamial Hightopp, apprentice to Mamoreal's Keeper of Time and future Master of Time, groans as a beam of cheerful sunlight stabs him squarely in his right eye. He rolls over in bed, grumbling several choice words that would get him into a great deal of trouble – guaranteed! – should they be overheard by a grown-up.

"Bloody... hate mornings," he informs his pillow on a mumble.

The pillow, being very familiar with this particular statement, does not respond. Which is just as well, Tam figures, as nothing short of stuffing the morning into a closet for a couple of hours has any chance of improving the situation.

He closes his eyes and remembers a time – had it really only been a few months ago? – when he had rolled out of bed without a single grumble once the sun had risen? He sighs heavily. His Mam has said, time and time again, that what he's going through is – unfortunately – perfectly normal. And he trusts his Mam to know all about Normal. Far more than he'd trust his Fa. No, Tamial would trust his Fa for instructions on how to _avoid _Normal entirely.

"Shoulda asked th' hat that," he moans to himself.

Yes, he should have. The other day, when his Fa had offered him his very first and very own Hightopp top hat, Tam should have thought to ask it about this rotten fellow called Normal and how to kick his stinky, little scut.

Tam snorts, imagining that. "M'be he squeaks," he speculates, trying on and discarding a variety of scut-kicking scenarios.

"Talking nonsense again!" the doorknob accuses. "Like father like son, no doubt! The next thing I have to look forward to, I suppose, is you waking me up at the crack of dawn, wandering the halls and muttering about blessings and lairds or some other such twaddle."

Tam rolls over and glares blearily at the mechanism. "My Fa doesn't talk nonsense _or _twaddle and neither do I!" he huffs. "It's not _our _fault you're too dim to get what we say."

The doorknob scoffs. "Dim am I? Well, I may not be well-polished brass – although I _could _be if _someone _would have half a care for me! – but even _I _know that there is nothing for me to _get _, as you so eloquently put it." The fixture sniffs condescendingly. "I am a doorknob. The only thing I get is a bit of slamming about from time to time."

"You could always ask to be moved to a guest room door," Tam informs it indifferently.

"Or I could ask _you _to move to a guest room."

"All my stuff's in here," he argues. "And besides, this is _my house. _I'm not a guest."

"Neither am I!"

"Humph. Well, just as soon as I have you turned 'round the right way—"

"In a rush to get that done, aren't you, lad?" it snarks.

"Bugger all..." Tam grumbles, presenting his back to the door.

The doorknob threatens, "I'll tell your parents you used such foul language while wholly cognizant!"

In response, Tam grimaces in concentration and lets loose an abrupt, squeaky fart.

"That had better not be one of your more frumious gas leakages, young man!"

But Tam can already smell that it is. He makes a face at the stench and rolls out of bed; he knows when to beat a hasty retreat. Out of spite, he closes the door behind him, leaving the doorknob to cough and gasp and gag, and pads down the hallway, following his growling stomach on a direct route to the kitchen. As he passes his parents' room, he very deliberately starts reciting the proper names of the gears and gizmos in the average pocket watch under his breath. Just in case. If there _are _any, er, _noises _coming from that room, he doesn't want to hear them!

The recitation does the trick and Tam listens rather happily to the sound of his own voice until he's halfway down the stairs, at which point he is in Safe Territory.

His stomach demands that he head straight for the kitchen, but at the sight of his Fa's open workroom door, he dares to make a brief stop. His innards growl with discontentment, but he can't help it; he is Curious as to whether the top hat his Fa had made for him is ready yet. Although Tam hadn't said as much at the time, he thinks he'd looked rather dashing in it!

He pokes his had into the room and frowns. It is even more spotless and tidy than he remembers. It is also completely empty of hats. Top hats included. He frowns at the worktable, confused. His Fa said he would leave it here, right here for when Tam is ready to introduce himself properly, but there is nothing on the polished wood surface.

With a sigh, he relents to the insistence of his adolescent empty stomach. Still frowning, he meanders down the hall. It's not until he's standing in the kitchen doorway with one hand splayed on the portal holding it open, that he realizes the room is already occupied.

His father sits, still in his pajamas with a bathrobe thrown over his shoulders – a rare sight indeed on a non-rest day! – gesticulating rather wildly and extravagantly as his Mam perches on his knees (and she is also still in _her_ nightclothes and robe!), doing her best to trap his wildly fluttering hands and fingers.

"Now, now, Alice. You won this Batten jam quite fairly as I recall!" he whispers on a giggle.

"And you're fairly late in delivering it," she counters, biting her lip and muffling her laughter as she chases after him. "Botheration! Hold still and stop your squirming! Take it like a laird of Iplam, Hightopp."

"Hightopp?" he echoes in an oddly playful yet dangerous tone.

His Mam arches her pale brows. "That's what I said, isn't it?"

"Indeed it was." His voice lowers even further. "An' jus' b'cause ye ken hauw teh knock me on mae tail d'snae mean I'll b'lettin' ye ge'away wi'it."

His Mam huffs out a breathy chuckle. "Oh, this I absolutely _must _see," she insists with a grin that is far too sharp and... _something _to belong to a Mother.

She leans forward, her hands grasping his Fa's wrists, and he stretches up toward her. The kiss is imminent.

"Eugh. Enough, please," Tam begs. "Just hand over some bread and butter and you can carry on!"

His Mam leans back, looks up at him and snorts. His Fa doesn't look all that perturbed by the interruption, either. Unfortunately.

"Ye're late!" his Fa informs him.

"Or early," he mutters as his Mam slides off of his Fa's lap and, with that very unsettling grin curving her lips, collects the jar of Batten jam sitting on the table and murmurs something that sounds like: "We'll settle this score _later._"

Tam decides to ignore the anticipatory grin and unfocused, beaming expression on his Fa's face.

He does not, however, ignore the fact that his Fa looks... better.

"Do I want to know?" Tam grouches, helping himself to the aforementioned bread and butter.

"I'm sure you don't," his Mam replies lightly.

"That would depend on the question," his Fa replies, rather astutely.

Turning, Tam leans a hip against the counter and butters his bread. "You look..." Healthy. Well. Great. Younger. Stronger. _Yourself._ "... better," he finishes lamely.

His Fa's auburn brows arc upward at that.

"But if that has anything to do with Batten jam and settling scores then I do not. Want. To. Know," he warns them both.

His Mam sniggers.

"On the contrary," he Fa replies happily. "In fact, I expect it has very much to do with a history lesson that you are long overdue for."

Tam rolls his eyes. "A history lesson? Come on, Fa. I've still got two whole days before you toss me into Sir Fenruffle's lair."

"Gryphons have nests, not lairs," his Mam notes, now fiddling with the teapot at the sink.

Tam rolls his eyes.

"Have a seat and take some tea," his Fa invites, gesturing to Tam's usual chair. And because the two of them appear to be behaving themselves (for the moment), he decides to indulge him.

Plopping down, Tam asks around a mouthful, "How come my hat's gone. The Answer to My Prayers top hat." He clarifies which hat in particular before his Fa can misunderstand – which Tam suspects he does quite a lot... accidentally on purpose, too! – and starts naming things that begin with the letter _M_.

Accepting a cup of freshly brewed tea, his Fa says with shocking bluntness, "It turns out you won't be needing that one any time soon. I'll make you another."

"I liked that one."

"You'll like this next one better."

"How do you know?"

His Fa glances over the rim of his teacup at him and – maddeningly – giggles. Tam takes his own cup – milky and well-sugared – from his Mam and glowers in thought as his Fa indulges in a noisy sip and, leaning back, declares in a dreamy tone, "Ye make th' best tea, mogh'linyea."

"At no time do you _ever_ cease to rhyme?" she counters with a happy smile.

Tam sighs, looks from one parent to the other and shakes his head. Seriously, what is going on here? All last week things were... weird. And now... what's with all this lovey-turtledovey... _stuff?_

It's enough to put a guy off his tea.

But Tam remembers the doorknob and, calculating the likelihood of it still being in a snit, resigns himself to occupying the breakfast table for a bit longer. If only the stupid thing had been installed _correctly!_ Whoever wants to have the _talking _end of a doorknob _inside_ their room? But every time Tam asks his Fa or Mam to fix it, he gets some irritating excuse or other... or another list of things that begin with the letter _M. _

Wondering precisely _how long_ he'll be forced to wait before the fixture on his bedroom door either forgives or forgets the incident and permits Tam to re-enter his room, he pulls his Fa's pocket watch out from under his nightshirt – where he keeps it on a leather cord around his neck – concentrates on his request and consults the face of the watch.

"Hm," he muses. According to this, he should be in the clear in just a little over a quarter of an hour. _Much_ sooner than he'd thought. Of course, he might get into _another_ argument with the blasted thing the moment he sets foot in his bedroom...

"It's still behaving for you?" his Fa asks idly, indicating the pocket watch.

Tam smirks. "Of course it is." Wiggling his brows, he challenges, "Would you like to know your future?"

His Fa looks up and over the table. Tam's Mam does likewise and Tam finds the coordination of the gestures a bit... eerie. _More _eerie than usual. For them.

She smiles and his Fa sighs. "Thank you for the offer, son," his Fa says, "but I do believe that answer has already been Asked... and Given."

Strangely, his Mam says nothing. She merely reaches across the table and he watches as his Fa's hand meets her halfway, their fingers intertwining.

Tam gives up. Grown-ups. There's just no understanding them. Maybe the doorknob was right: there's not an ounce of sense in them. Tam sighs: it's a somewhat depressing thought that he has this – sugary smiles, gooey gazes, and certain senility – to look forward to in his later years.

Maybe, if he offers the doorknob an apology, he won't have to wait the _full_ quarter hour to be allowed back into his room. His Fa always says that introductions and apologies are the sugar and cream of life – as with tea, a great many things are more easily swallowed with a liberal application of both.

Firmly ignoring the Moment his parents are sharing, Tam snaps the pocket watch shut and tucks it back under his shirt.

"Well, if you change your mind..." he says, guzzling his tea and rising to put his cup in the sink.

"We know where you live," his Mam finishes for him.

Tam thinks about the snooty doorknob he's on his way to negotiate with for a pair of socks and a jacket and finds he can't be as optimistic as her on that point. One of these days, that stuck-up bit of brass is going to lock him out of his room for good, and then who knows _where _he'll end up living... maybe in the stables with Fitzfrey and his Mam's students! At this point, a truce with that bloody-minded doorknob seems impossible. But, then again, his Mam's specialty is impossible things.

"Yeah," he says, grinning as he grabs another piece of bread for the trek back up the stairs. "You do."

* * *

Notes:

1. What does a Master of Time do? Well, actually, I haven't really decided yet. So, use your own imagination. If I think of something really cool someday, I'll share. Promise.

2. And on the subject of gas leakages... I realize that here, in Upland, it's the silent ones to beware of... but Tam's not an Uplander, is he? (Why does this passage make me snigger and giggle like I'm 20 years younger? No idea. Just... No. Idea.)

3. Ah... yes. It looks like despite Tarrant having... appropriated a jar of Batten jam from Thackery's kitchen at the end of Book 4, he and Alice hadn't actually gotten around to, erm, settling that score (from back in Book 4, Chapter 5).

* * *

[End of Chapter 11]


	187. Book 5, Then There Was Futterwhacken, 1

_**Chapter Twelve: And There Was Futterwhacken  
**_

[Scene 1 of 2]

"You did everything you could," Mirana's lion-husband and king soothes her.

She rolls toward him and burrows into his warmth. Yes, there is a kingdom to be managed and children to see to. (Except for Tarra, who has been apprenticing in Crimson Harbor for two weeks and Mirana will not think about how much she misses her! Not now when she is facing another Thursday and Alice's imminent arrival... _without her Hatter!_)

"It wasn't enough," Mirana insists, pressing a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her nose.

Dale sighs. "Mi-sh'rya, you gave that scar a Royal Decree to slow it. Don't you think your Hatter and your Champion appreciated the additional time you gave them?"

She hiccups softly. Yes, she had interfered. She had not been able to stop the scar from realizing its Intent, but she had managed to Command it to take more time in going about it. "I should have done more," she insists.

Her husband rubs his long-fingered paws along her back. She is still in her shrift and she knows she ought to get up, get dressed, get the children downstairs for breakfast and then off to their respective lessons or livelihoods...

"Mirana," Dale rumbles firmly. "Had you been able to do more, you would have. And then this past you have spoken of... this Gray Lady who found the Oraculum and turned the Hatter into the leader of _your_ Resistance... none of it would have happened that way. And if _that_ had been changed..."

"I know," she sniffles. "_Our_ lives now might have been changed as well. Perhaps we would not have met and wed when we had... and our children..."

He presses his whiskery mouth to her forehead. "It is selfish of me to think it, but if it means the safety of our children, then I..."

She sighs. She _knows._ She feels the same guilt. How can she want Tarrant to die? For _any_ reason? But if changing the past somehow hurts her children...!

No, things _must_ happen exactly as they _had_ happened or perhaps not everything would be the way it is now. Knowing this, she had given up the very idea of defying Tarrant's destiny; she had acquiesced to the future she knows over the great many she does not. What she is not sure of is the nature of that lack of intervention: had it been queenly... or cowardly?

"You Decreed that his end would be gentle," Dale reminds her. And, closing her eyes, she remembers: the morning of the autumn Barterment, with Alice and Tam in attendance at the market, Tarrant had slipped away on some excuse and had arrived at her office, where she had been writing a formal reply to Jaspien's proposal. Tarrant had curled up in the very armchair that his Alice had sat in years and years ago, when Mirana had first told her of the Wooing Rites and the duties of the Champion, and he had cried.

"Do you know how it will happen?" she had asked.

He had nodded miserably before pulling himself together with a series of deep breaths. "The scar Masonmark gave me. It's already begun to move," he had lisped.

And Mirana had shaken back her scallop-edged sleeves. "Show it to me, Hatta, and let me see what I can do."

And she had done it.

_"You shall not be hasty in your Intent... nor shall you cause undue pain..."_

She had Commanded and Decreed... and it had given Tarrant more time, more peace... But, oh, if only she had _dared_ to Court Fate again! She might have convinced them to spare his life, or teach her of a cure, or allow Alice to come to them _another_ way!

And now... now she will never know if any of that might have been possible. Surely, by now, Tarrant has... passed. It would have happened on early Tuesday morning if her calculations are correct... and she knows they are. Still, she has not received word that there is one less hatter in the White Realm, nor has she heard that there is a new Laird of Iplam...

Nevertheless, by now Alice has very likely Stepped back in Time and saved them all... for the first time. But her success will not change the fact that Tarrant is irreversibly dead. She fears what this will mean for her friend when all that Alice must say and do is at last said and done.

What will Alice do without her Tarrant? Or will she somehow manage to convince Fate to return him to her? Despite the fact that, to Mirana's knowledge, _that_ has never been done before nor do the Fates have any power over those in the realm of Death...

_Oh, Hatta...!_ Surely, the sacrifices that have been demanded of him are Too Much. _You have been wronged, my friend, by your world and by your queen._ She is thankful that Alice had remained beside him, loyal and true and strong and brave, since the moment she had been pulled from that sinking ship through the mirror. They two had had nearly twenty years together... and while that is no small duration of time, it seems far too brief to Mirana's aching heart.

And very soon – today! – Mirana will be greeting an old, gray, peaky widow on the steps of Mamoreal... and what will Mirana say to her then? What could possibly make _any_ of this marginally bearable for her Champion?

"Alice will never forgive me... for not doing more."

"You did all you could," Dale repeats patiently. "And Alice will understand that. It is you, my love, who must forgive herself."

His words are wise, but she is not ready to hear them. Mirana closes her eyes and shakes her head with regret. Now, with the benefit of hindsight, Mirana can see how effectively all of them have been manipulated by the Fates (and perhaps even Chance) into forcing Alice to Step back in time:

Mirana had been the one to tell her of Courting Fate in the first place, years and years ago.

Chessur had asked the jabberwockies to go so that Alice would not be tempted to ask for a vial of blood.

And the very fabric of Underland – the magic that makes promises and intent Real in ways that they are not in Upland, in ways that Alice could not have anticipated – had lead to...

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs into her husband's mane, recalling that old widow. The Gray Lady had done so much to make this world – the world Mirana rules now – possible. In fact, Mirana would dare to say that, as Alice had _made_ this Underland, should she ever choose to, Alice – who is a queen in her own right! – would have more right to rule it than Mirana does.

"I deserve to be usurped," she acknowledges. "I should have... If I had only _told _Alice to Court Fate _before..._ then They might have warned her of the scar and the Intent before Tarrant was ever injured in that wretched canal and he might still be..._alive_. Alice has every right to blame me for this. I should have known it was no coincidence that one Alice would be the harbinger of another. There has only ever been _one _Alice to visit Underland. I am a fool for not seeing it sooner."

When Dale does not immediately refute her, she despairs, "This will change everything." She consults her handkerchief again on the issue of her runny nose. "I will have lost Hatta... and Alice, my friend..."

"No, that will not happen," Dale insists. "You must trust Alice, as you have always done. And you must be strong for her, and for the children... for Ama..."

She nods. Yes, he is right. Alice will need her. And the children... they will all miss their Uncle Hatter... Amallya most of all...

"And you must get out of bed, Mi-sh'rya."

She still doesn't want to, but she knows she must. And so she does.

Her sorrow and guilt and despair have not been exorcised, but she manages a brave face and a pair of dry – if somewhat reddened – eyes.

Chestor notices. He allows his brothers and sisters to take the lead with his father and drops behind. Falling into step with his mother, he places a lanky arm around her waist. Mirana's smile returns briefly, prideful and watery as it is. Her eldest son may not have a way with words, poor awkward boy, but his grace manifests itself in other ways. In silence, and out of sight from the rest of her family, Mirana squeezes him back and presses a kiss to his neat hair.

It is a measure of his goodness that he does not object in the slightest, despite the blush that turns his face bright pink. "Mother?" he asks softly, pausing in the hall as everyone files into Thackery's kitchen.

She lingers, tweaking the locks of hair she had mussed back into place, and rubs his shoulder. "I..."

"Can't talk about it?" he guesses, resigned. There are many things Mirana does not discuss with her children, many troubles and issues that she – as queen – must handle herself. She will not burden her children with these worries unless absolutely necessary. But, in this case...

She shakes her head. "I am expecting some... bad news."

"If you haven't heard it yet, then it might still be all right," he ventures.

Overcome, Mirana pulls Chestor into her arms. "Thank you, darling," she says to his bright pink ear. "You make an excellent point." And one she would give almost anything to make Real. "Now," she says with false brightness, "you go on and have some tea. You know how Thackery hates it when someone's late."

"But... are you not eating?" Chestor hesitates with one hand on the door.

"I'll be along in... just a moment."

He nods and gives her an encouraging grin before turning toward the door.

"Don't forget—" she begins.

"To duck. I know, Mother."

She watches as he pushes open the door, but no spoons or teacups or even teabags are launched at him. No Witzend-accented screams of "YE'RE LATE!"

No, instead, a sound that is... impossible tumbles out into the corridor. It is the snorting, cackling giggle of a Mad Hatter. She freezes, her eyes wide and jaw agape, until Dale shoulders past Chestor and reaches out a furred hand to her.

"Mi-sh'rya," he rasps, his own eyes looking quite as watery as hers must be, "you _must _come and see this."

Numbly, she lays her hand in his and allows him to pull her into the room. There, at the long kitchen table, sits not only her family, but her friends and loyal subjects and... her Champion _and_ her Royal Hatter.

In the midst of accusing Leif of running back to Mamoreal for the sole purpose of lazing about when he _ought_ to be hard at work at Causwick Castle and assisting with the preparations for Underland's very first Festival of War Games, Alice – a perfectly _perfect_ Alice who is not gray in the slightest! – pauses, turns toward Mirana... and smiles.

But Mirana is a bit too preoccupied to respond, for here sits her Hatter, healthy and whole and vibrant with happiness, laughing with delight at the hat Ama is proudly modeling for him.

"Tarrant?" Mirana asks, staring quite rudely, she is sure, but unable to help it!

"Your Majesty!" he crows, standing and rounding the table to present himself before her. She watches him bow, still unable to understand _how_... Surely, he had... and Alice had... because if she _hadn_'_t_...!

"Alice!" she declares, panic turning her question into an exclamation.

"It's done, Your Majesty," Alice replies, pushing herself up from the crowded bench and doing her best not to jostle Tamial.

"Done?" she echoes. "But..." She looks back at Tarrant. "How is this possible?"

Tarrant giggles warmly. "We will tell you!"

At the table, Sir Fenruffle clears his gullet. "Yes, it appears I have been replaced by two substitute history instructors this morning." Interestingly enough, he does not appear all that upset by the forced holiday.

Her gaze passes over her children: all except Tarra, of course, are present and currently filling their plates, unaware of the miracle that has taken place. Mirana takes in Thackery's roving gaze and toothy smile. Nivens is also in attendance, seated next to Mallymkun. Leif is here and, to his left, so is Uilleam (who is looking quite proud of himself for something or other). Bayard and Bayelle – and _both _litters of pups – have squeezed in along the benches as well. Tweedledum and Tweedledee are rather characteristically seated side-by-side, although oddly unquarrelsome. Chessur hovers impudently over the sugar bowl and grins at Tamial.

Mirana allows Dale to lead her to her seat and Tarrant returns to his place at the corner of the table, two seats away from his Alice with their son between them. "Tell me, please! How it is possible that you are both... _here_!" Mirana finally manages to say, ignoring the teacup Dale is holding out to her.

Ian grunts and Lanny scoffs, "By carriage, I imagine. Unless you came by Bandersnatch this time?"

Tamial rolls his eyes.

"Tea, first, love," Dale purrs, interrupting the speculation and earning an adoring grin from the March Hare.

"A _T _always comes first when it comes to _tea_," Tweedledee announces authoritatively and his brother frowns into the depths of his own teacup before grinning and nodding in wholehearted approval.

Knowing this is undoubtedly the quickest way to get the answers she needs, Mirana accepts the steaming beverage and takes a sip. "Now," she says, placing the cup and saucer and its unsavored contents onto the table. Mirana clutches her husband's wrist to ground herself and addresses her Champion and her Hatter: "You have my undivided attention!"

Tarrant glances at Alice who, with a smile, nods. "You start."

"From the beginning, Raven?" he confirms and she agrees:

"That would be a very typical place to begin," she concurs.

And, having obtained her blessing, he does:

"Once upon a very unfortunate Horvendush Day, there was a newly crowned Red Queen with a prison made of marzipan which she filled with a great many rather reluctant prisoners..."

It is, without a doubt, the most engaging and _urgent_ history lesson, Mirana has ever had. And, by the looks of their gob smacked – or would that be _flunderwhapped_ in this instance? – faces, none of the children have ever been so entertained before, either. Or so engaged. Question after question are launched into the breakfast atmosphere.

"Aunt Mally, tell us they're joking? _You?_ A sleepy dormouse?"

"But, Uncle Hatter! What about your Muchness?"

"Didn't you recognize Aunt Alice? Was she really a shriveled up, old hag? _Really?_"

"So _that's_ why the Bandersnatch only lets _you_ ride him! Oh... and Uncle Hatter, too."

"But... if all this is true," Tamial Hightopp eventually says with a very Alice-y sort of frown, "then how come you didn't know before that you'd have to Step back in Time? Aunt Mirana has the Oraculum..."

"Actually," Alice replies gently to her son's question. "_Absolem_ has the Oraculum... and he refused to let me see more than a few glimpses of the very distant future. I had no idea your father would die... or that I would Court Fate... or go into the past."

"You really... died?" Tam asks his father, his eyes wide and face pale.

Tarrant merely smiles. "And now you know why your Mam and I were acting so oddly!"

"But... why didn't you _tell _me?" Tam demands. "And... oh! The hat! You made me that hat with all those answers and...! I _asked _it why Mam was acting so strange and it said...!"

"Aye," Tarrant admits, saddened. "It told ye that yer Mam was actin' odd b'cause she missed me... I was... tryin' teh anticipate yer questions, lad. After I was gone."

"But... but... why _didn_'_t_ you _tell _me you were...?"

Mirana's heart goes out to the boy who is nearly a man... and on the verge of frustrated tears.

And Tarrant, bless his beautiful soul, is not unaffected. His blue-green eyes shimmer and his voice crackles a bit as he replies: "Because I di'nae want teh make ye sad one moment afore ye would be."

"And it's all worked out fine, in the end," Alice interjects rather timely. "Because we have your Fa back with us again."

Tam gives his Fa a suspicious look. "And that's why I won't be needing that hat anytime soon?"

"Precisely! I'm afraid that – if you have a question – you shall have to ask me personally," Tarrant replies with a wink. He reaches out and tousles his son's curly hair. And, despite the arm-waving and grumpy protests, Mirana gets the distinct impression that the youngest Hightopp does not mind the high-handed gesture very much.

With tea and breakfast finished and questions from the youthful members of the gathering asked and answered, Sir Fenruffle ushers the lot off. "To the library with you! I want your notes on this adventure _legibly_ written before lunch!"

The adults linger: the hounds, the hare, the dormouse, the cat, the dodo, the Champions, the Hatter, and the king and queen.

"Alice..." Mirana begins after the door has shut and the kitchen has been silent for a very long moment. "How _did_ the two of you manage to cheat Death?" She looks between her Hatter and her Champion, sure that they had somehow managed the impossible through their combined efforts.

"Would you believe my Alice bartered with the Fates for me?" Tarrant lisps.

"No," Mirana responds promptly. "Given the nature of the Fates and the scope of their powers, no, I would _not _believe that, Tarrant."

Alice sighs, places a hand on her husband's arm, and confesses, "I did barter... in a way. I pointed out the fact that since they had destroyed my... family to right _their_ mistake – they never should have given the Oraculum to the Duchess in the first place! – I was owed a boon."

"So easily?" Mirana challenges.

Alice bites her lip. "Well, there was a bit more, erm, persuasion involved, but they were very gracious... in the end."

The White Queen nearly snorts. "Alice. It is a well-known fact that the Fates rule over the Living. They could not have returned Tarrant's soul to his body, even if..." Mirana pauses, takes in the expression on her Champion's face – one that she _knows_ contains many secrets – and rephrases, "_You_ went into the realm of Death, didn't you?"

Around the table, gasps and gurgling chokes are heard. Were any other matter being discussed, Mirana would have paused, patted backs and whispered reassurances to her assembled friends, but the White Queen barely hears them, so focused is she on Alice. In this moment, she is a queen, and she demands the truth from her Champion.

"Yes."

"That is impossible," the White Queen counters.

"And yet, here we are."

"But... you cannot enter the realm of Death and escape it alive if you so much as _see_—"

"Hear, touch, taste, smell or otherwise perceive it. Yes, I know. I was told that very thing," Alice replies bluntly, meeting the queen's challenge with a stare of her own. "And the solution to that conundrum lies in the very act of passing into the realm of Death."

"Alice...?" Tarrant lisps on a tone tinted with burgeoning fear as comprehension dawns in his expression.

Mirana pursues the truth more directly. "Do you mean to tell me you _purposefully—?_"

"Yes, I did. And it worked, didn't it?"

Mirana's urgency begins to give way to horror and she whispers, "Alice... You are saying that, when you passed through the light, you allowed it to...?"

"Again, _yes_," Alice replies abruptly, her back stiff and straight. "I did. And, as you can see, I am _fine._"

"Alice, what did you do?" Tarrant demands, truly frightened now.

Thackery bangs his teaspoon on the table. "Caught walkin' through fire, aye, ye wee bessom?"

Tarrant gasps, eyes Alice's frozen expression, and leans toward her. "Tell me ye di'nae, Alice. Tell me there was ano'her way teh..."

She looks up into his seeking, fearful gaze and he chokes on a sob at what he sees in her eyes.

"Oh, Alice," he whispers, gathering her hands reverently in his own. "Ye... th' pain... Ye shouldnae'ave..."

She reaches out and pets his grasping, trembling fingers. "It was the only way to enter... that place without seeing it, the only way to Call out to you without hearing an answer, the only way to walk without feeling anything from my surroundings..."

He shakes his head, cupping her cheeks now, in his hands. "No, Alice... No..."

She reaches up and grasps his wrists, although she does not pull his hands away. "The pain was brief, and the fire did its job well."

Mirana doesn't doubt that it had, for here Alice sits. There can be no other explanation: the light that Alice had passed through had destroyed her ability to perceive her surroundings, had cauterized her nerves and burned away her sight and hearing and... The queen shudders.

"Yes," Alice continues softly, focusing on her husband's devastated expression and ignoring all else. "I walked through fire for you. Do not deny me that when I know you have suffered for my sake more than once."

"Just as you have suffered, again and again, for mine! Alice!" Mirana watches as Tarrant's brows twitch and his lips twist with the power of the emotions rising within him.

"Gray 'r gold, small 'r tall, late 'r Champion... all the same!" Thackery announces, soothing the moment with his abrupt observation.

"That is true," Mirana admits. "Which bring me to my own confession. Alice..."

Her Champion and her Hatter both look up and Mirana finds that she needs the strength of her husband's hand upon hers to continue. "I should have realized you – my Champion and the Gray Lady – were one and the same. I should have warned you to Court the Fates long before you did. If I had—"

Alice shakes her head. "They would not have answered my Suit, and you know it. I wasn't ready then, or properly... _motivated_. I wouldn't have had as much to lose... or as much to gain."

"Alice! Listen to me! I participated in the most wretched scheme to take your husband from you! And, at the time, I had no reason to believe that you would be capable of bringing him back!"

"You're under a misapprehension, Your Majesty," Alice says sternly. And then she continues in a teasing tone, "You are _hardly_ Queen of _all_ Underland – past, present, and future! You are as much subject to Fate as anyone. How could I blame you for being caught in the same trap as I? As a mother myself, don't you think I can understand why you didn't try harder to interfere?"

"Well, yes, but—"

"You are – if you'll forgive the Uplandish saying – only human," Alice insists.

"True, but you see, I—"

"I _do _see. And I _thank you_," Alice continues, "for using your powers to extend the time Tarrant and I had together."

"But, Alice, it was all—"

"All you could do. And you did not hesitate to do it."

"I should have—"

"No, you shouldn't have." Alice delivers that comment with an air of conclusion and a victorious grin.

Mirana huffs. "If you will please stop interrupting me, Alice!"

She smirks. "A Champion's prerogative, Your Majesty. When one's liege is being a wimble-maker, it's a Champion's duty to step in and save them from themselves."

"Oh, botheration," Mirana grumbles. She subsides, a hesitant smile curling her dark lips.

"'Twas all Fated," the March Hare summarizes. "An'twere nuthin' teh b'frettin' o'er! Auwr Alice 'as a way o' negot'atin' wi'th' Future."

Mirana can't help but smile at that, even though it is a rather watery and wobbly smile. "And I don't doubt you got all that you wanted out of that bargain... and more." Yes, Alice's skills at bartering had been more than sufficiently proven at the autumn Barterment!

But, despite Alice being perfectly capable of managing her own future, Mirana still fears. "Alice..."

"We are all right, Mirana. Everything is fine."

"No, it ain't!" a shrill voice declares.

Everyone turns in the direction of a very upset dormouse. "The Gray Lady said – _you_ said, Alice – that yer husband's death was _Intentional!_"

"It was," Tarrant himself admits with visible reluctance.

"I want tha' rat bastard's head on a plate!" Mally howls, thumping one small fist into the palm of her other hand. "Tell me 'is name, 'Atter!"

"No, Mally."

"'Atter...!" she threatens.

"Mallymkun!" he barks. "'Tis over. An' I d'nae believe th' perpetrator will try again."

Mally purses her mousy mouth into a sour expression. "If 'ee so much as tries... I _swear_...!" She draws her sword and swishes it.

"He won't," Alice assures her.

"Well..." Chessur drawls into the increasingly awkward moment. "This is all cheery. I suppose I can alert Krystoval that the blood of the jabberwockies is no longer in _urgent_ demand?"

"Yes, you may, _Cat_," Alice replies on a tolerant sigh. "Tell that lot to come home as soon as possible. Don't you miss getting chewed on by juveniles?"

Chessur blinks slowly. "I'll have you know they're well past their second teethings."

"The next phase is the poison-tipped tail spikes, I believe," Mirana mutters into her teacup.

Alice snorts. "Good luck with that."

"Good luck..." Chessur muses, unperturbed. "Now _that_ is something I have enjoyed since a very _gray_ widow showed up and pointed me in the right direction." He twists in the air, swirling into an evaporating mist, "And that's all the thanks you'll ever be getting about _that_," he declares.

"You're too kind," Alice mutters, grinning.

There is no reply. The Cheshire Cat has already vanished.

"Well," Bayard speaks up, "I don't mind telling you, Alice, that I'm sorry I missed out on all the adventure back then."

"Ah, but if you had smelled me, Bayard..." Alice begins.

"Hm? Oh, yes," he responds with a doggy frown. "I would have said something... and it had to be a secret, didn't it?"

Mirana commiserates with the hound. Deception is not something Dog Logic takes to with ease.

In answer, Alice merely nods. And then her gaze alights on the Dodo Bird, sitting patiently beside a very quiet and contemplative Leif. "Uilleam," she says with a grin. "It's nice to see you again, my friend."

He preens. "Thank you, No-longer-gray Lady. Although I _expect_ that _I_ have missed you a great deal longer than _you_ have missed me!"

"I expect you're right."

"Of course I am!" he declares pompously. The statement only makes Alice's grin widen, however. And then the dodo levels himself up off the bench and hobbles his way over to Alice and Tarrant. Mirana spies something under his wing, something bound in blue leather...

"This is for you," Uilleam says, presenting her with a thin book.

Alice accepts it and, holding it out for Tarrant to see it, lifts the cover. "Uilleam..." she breathes as Tarrant gently thumbs the first page aside. "This is..."

"A record of the adventures of the Gray Lady," he supplies. "I wrote it after you left. And now seems a good time to give it to you. I expect it'll have its own place in your family history."

"It will. It does," Alice tells him. "Thank you, Uilleam."

He nods once. "And Othenia and I will be expecting you 'round for tea in the _near _future!"

"Tarrant and I will be there!" she promises, grinning as he stumps his way from the kitchen.

"Alice, Hatter..." Leif says on an awe-filled sigh. He shakes his head ruefully and then, glancing up, gifts them with a twinkle in his eye. "You...!"

"Had all the fun without you... yet _again_," Alice finishes for him. "And you're jealous."

He leans back and laughs. "Sure I am. Still, I think I could have beaten you one-on-one, _Gray Lady_."

Alice smirks. "I would have liked to have seen you try!"

Tarrant giggles. "Indeed! You rather put Stayne through his paces, Raven!"

"That was _a little _fun..." she admits. "Unfortunately for you, Leif, _I'm_ the one you'll have to prove your mettle to if you still intend to marry Tarra before she turns nineteen!"

He chuckles. "You've got that backwards, Champion. _She's_ the one who needs to have someone explain the concept of _Patience_ to her. As for me, waiting is looking better and better every day," he muses.

"Scared of the big, bad Alice, lion?" she teases.

He noisily swallows a laugh. "Isn't everyone? As _big_ and as _bad _as you are! Although... I guess I _ought _to do you the favor of letting you practice on me. Bethie's up for a bit of wooing soon enough! And with her vows..."

"I know," Alice replies. "There have already been inquiries." She glances at Mirana, who nods.

"Yes. Several. Including one from a certain unicorn lord we both know, on behalf of his son. Whom I believe you are _also_ acquainted with, Alice?"

Alice snorts. "Wonderful." She smirks at Leif. "I'll try not to let you feel too left out."

"How generous!"

And despite Leif's sarcasm, Mirana cannot help hearing the truth of his words as they ring out in the kitchen Yes, Mirana hears the Truth... and she is not alone in that:

Thackery twitches.

The Tweedles elbow each other.

Mally sighs.

Alice smiles.

Tarrant giggles.

And Mirana feels Dale's warm hand turn and clasp hers beneath the table. Yes, all things considered, Fate has been very generous, indeed.

* * *

Notes:

1. A reminder about the Wooing Rites: in order for a member of the royal family (who has taken vows to not harm any living creature) to marry, a Champion needs to conduct the Wooing Rites. Tarranya, who has made no such vow, only has to go through with the Wooing Rites if she is underage... which she is... but not for much longer (if Leif can manage to convince her to wait)! As for her twin sister, the Wooing Rites will start when she's nineteen and of age in Underland. (It would be rather rude for someone to petition the hand of an underage prince or princess! [Leif and Tarra are a rather atypical case.] So, Alice hasn't had to fight on behalf of the queen's children... yet. But soon Bethie will be old enough to be "properly" courted and Alice will be rather busy chaperoning, interviewing, and fighting suitors!) None of the queen's other children have taken those vows, so – unless they are courted when they are under the age of nineteen – Alice won't have to battle their potential spouses.

2. Perhaps Alice's levity is a bit... odd. Well, everything has turned out all right and she is focusing on that. Alice is a pragmatist and she knows that nothing good will come from holding a grudge against the Fates (just look at where Tarrant's grudge against Time has gotten them!) so she is purposefully Not Thinking About the things she cannot change. Yes, deep down, I think she'd like a chance to bop each of the Fates on the nose, but she has her husband, her son, and her life back – just the way it was before. For now, she's more than happy with that.

* * *

End of Chapter 12: Scene 1 of 2


	188. Book 5, Then There Was Futterwhacken, 2

_**Chapter Twelve: And There Was Futterwhacken  
**_

[Scene 2 of 2]

Tarrant surveys the bustling, boisterous goings-on surrounding the impregnable walls of Causwick Castle and _marvels_. Here he is, sitting beside his Alice (who is frowning fiercely as one of her students – Ursalea... yes, that particular shade of fur is unmistakable on a bear – battles with a more experienced lion from Shuchland). The atmosphere is seething with life and packed with cheers and even the surrounding murky swamp and drooping willow trees seem more optimistic. The Callion has changed: here _they_ are – he and his Alice and their son (who is around here somewhere, making a nuisance of himself, Tarrant happily muses) – witnesses to that metamorphosis, in attendance at Underland's first Festival of War Games!

He had never expected to live to see this day.

Alice's hand grips his tightly as they watch from the hastily-erected stands. Well, _he _does not watch the sparring match on the packed earth. He watches his Alice as _she_ watches the matches. He knows, not from witnessing it for himself, but from reading his wife's expressions, the varying degrees of tension in her shoulders, and the warmth that travels completely unimpeded through the renewed heart line, that her students have done well.

They have made her proud.

It is a sensation he recognizes easily, now. This warmth has always been there, he realizes. Yes, it has been ever-present and always _for him_. Alice has _always_ been proud of him... he had simply mistakenly identified the feeling before as Alice-ness, as an intrinsic and inseparable aspect of who his wife is. Now he knows this warmth that she Sends him without conscious thought is not _just_ the manifestation of her existence; it is not _only_ a facet of her love... It is More.

Tarrant does not know if he has ever been More to anyone else. His family had loved him and been proud of him, he believes. The White Queen cares for him as part of her family. Mally and Thackery would fight beside him if ever the need arises again. But Alice... To Alice, he is _More_.

She had dared to Step back in Time with only the thought of saving him on her mind. No, she had not rescued the Oraculum and completed the assigned delivery for the sake of Underland. This time... this time she had fought, had given her life, to save _him_.

Alice had once told him, on the bed of a guest room in her mother's house Above, that she loves him more than anything. And now he knows it is as true here and now as it had been then and there.

"Do you forgive me?" he whispers into her ear.

The combatants have not broken from their furious exchange of blows, but Alice responds immediately. She turns her full attention to him, gives him this moment that he selfishly demands despite the fact that she is _working now!_

"Forgive you? Whatever for?" she murmurs back with endearing confusion.

"I doubted you," he reminds her, lifting his hand and trailing his fingertips over the scar on her throat. "After you died to save Underland, I thought it had finally happened... that you no longer..."

His heart aches at the thought and she Feels it.

"Tarrant..." she sighs with a rueful shake of her head. "I love you more than _anything_."

His lips curve upward and his heart warms at the words, at the feel of that love, which she Sends along the heart line to him. "I know," he replies. And this is not the place for kisses, nor is it the time – he has demanded too much of Alice's attention as it is! – so he forces himself to turn back to the swordplay in the rustic arena.

And he is just in time to see the lion's sword spiral through the air.

Ursalea had disarmed him.

The fight is over and the spectators applaud. Alice's is the loudest voice amongst the rabble. She stands and cheers, grinning as madly as a Mad Hatter. The she-bear, on the other hand, is a bit too busy looking flunderwhapped to take a proper bow.

"She'll advance to the next round after lunch," Alice sighs with happiness as she lets Tarrant lead her from the wooden stands. The game participants and visitors mill about, awaiting the announcement of the next match. Some drink warm Grobbenale and Battenmead from mugs of wood or brass or even glass that are clipped to the owner's belt when not in use. It is nice to see such accessories in the place of swords, Tarrant thinks.

"Things will be better next year," Alice predicts, gazing around at the facilities that Leif had been in charge of preparing. "Leif will have more time, for one thing. And perhaps there will be more volunteers to help."

Tarrant hums his agreement. Truthfully, he is rather indifferent to the games, himself. The peaceful compromise they represent is important, yes, but his Alice is not fighting in these matches, so the outcome and sophistication of the event itself has little bearing on him. But, at the mention of Leif, Tarrant finds himself glancing about and – yes, there! – locating the White King's Champion.

Tarrant giggles at the sight of Tarra bullying the he-lion into accompanying her as she makes the rounds at the stalls. Perhaps she is looking for carpentry tools. Or perhaps a leather binding for what will become a book of memoirs of their house.

Alice pivots and glances at the sight that has so amused Tarrant. She smirks. "Do you really think Tarra will let him wait another three months?"

"Oh, Alice," he answers. "That princess is having far too much fun to hurry the inevitable." Inspiration – or perhaps instinct – takes him and he hears himself burr, "'Twon' happen 'til her apprenticin's done. Ye'll see."

"And so will you." He clearly hears her knowing reply. The words are so soft a gust of wind could have easily blown them away. Luckily, the wind is quiet and leaves them be for Tarrant to catch.

"Aye," he agrees, still hardly daring to believe that it is true. "I will."

He does not thank her for defying the Fates for him, for venturing into Death for him, for suffering the unimaginable pain of passing through the Light at the End for him, for trusting him to follow her back, for risking everything for him.

He does not thank her... _again_. Yes, his Alice sometimes gets rather impatient when people repeat themselves _too_ often. But a heart line message... _that_, he is sure, doesn't count. And so he Sends her his awe again. And she Answers with her love.

"Lassling? Alice Lassling?"

Tarrant turns, placing himself half a step in front of his wife, wary of that title and all who freely speak it. This time, however, there is no threat. The speaker is the woman who had delivered tea and ginger bread and stew to them when Alice had bargained with Jaspien for succor.

"Madam...!" Tarrant greets her with a grin, and then pauses when he realizes... "I'm terribly sorry, but I don't believe we've been properly introduced. Tarrant Hightopp."

"Inghan Causwoman," the older woman says, shaking Tarrant's hand firmly and then Alice's. "'Tis gehd teh see ye again, Lassling."

"Alice, please," Tarrant's wife gently – but firmly – objects. "And it is wonderful to be here. How are you finding the event?"

"Mos' beneficious," she declares with pride. "Auwr leather-works b'tradin' well an' th' gifts from th' guests..." She shakes her head in wonderment. "Auwr expectations werenae _this_ high when auwr laird firs' gave us th' news tha' we'd be hosts teh th' festival." She takes a moment, to look around at the people and mud-colored stands and arenas and recently drained but as yet un-planted fields. "'Tis nae Maigh," she admits. "An' we've a laung ways yet teh go afore it becomes th' event we all hope it teh be..."

Inghan Causwoman pauses in her survey and pins Alice with a sharp look. "Bu' if'n th'rumors're true, then 'tis _ye_ we all have teh thank f'r bringin' a livelihood teh auwr lands, Champion Alice."

Obviously uncomfortable, Alice responds with gratifying muchness, "You should not discount your lord's hard work, Madam Causwoman. Without him, this would not be possible."

The woman's mouth curves into a wry grin. "Aye, ye've the righ'o'that."

Tarrant reads, in Inghan Causwoman's knowing look, a wily logic that is disconcerting in its near-Alice-ness. Alice returns the woman's smile... and a secret is locked away: no, this festival would not have been possible without Jaspien's efforts... nor would it have been possible if not for Alice's initial suggestion of it. But Tarrant knows that the latter contribution will never be mentioned: no one will ever know that the White Queen's Champion had also championed for the people of the Callion. That honor will fall squarely on Jaspien's shoulders... just as it _should._

Inghan leads them through the market, introducing them to various craftsmen, women, and beasts. Tarrant meets a man he is _sure_ must be a relation of the Sheafments, who had developed an ingenious method for preserving records in the damp swamp air: tar and feathers!

"Th' tar seals awae th' wet, aye?"

"And the feathers?" Tarrant hears himself ask as he inspects a specimen.

The older man informs him, "Keeps i'tall afloat in th'event o'flood."

Alice, Tarrant notices, finds many of the adaptations that the folk of the Callion have made of great interest as well. As they make the rounds with Inghan's services as guide and introduction-facilitator, Tarrant has half a notion to invite many of these craft-workers to Iplam... or perhaps invite their apprentices...

"Remarkable work-womanship," he praises one lady's black-clay pots that had been baked in a charcoal pit rather than under the sun (which rarely shines very strongly here). And when he makes that comment, he watches Inghan and... yes, there! The calculating gleam in her eye is the very one he'd expected. It appears he is not the only one contemplating an exchange of sorts in the future. Truly, Iplam _could _be a middle-place between Causwick and Mamoreal, for it is not so much _ruled _by the White Queen as it is _governed_ by the Hightopp family.

Yes, perhaps, in the future, Tarrant _will _invite some of the youngsters here to come to Iplam, to learn Outlandish trades and to share Callion technologies...

"My Alice..." he muses after they have bid farewell to Inghan and are on the way to collect their son. It is nearly supper-time and Alice's students have nearly finished with the stew she'd assigned them to prepare. True to expectations, none of the guests have imposed upon the Callion's meager food resources. In fact, if anything, they have supplemented it by bringing gifts of grain and dried fruit and vegetables, pots of honey and oil and herbs. The White Queen had thoughtfully issued a list of gifts that would be appreciated by the Callion and a great many of the visitors who have made the pilgrimage had heeded the advice.

"Yes?" she prompts, when he allows the scent of a well-spiced soup to distract him.

"Hm? Oh! Yes," he clears his throat. "As I was saying, I do believe that Causwoman will be a person of interest to Iplam in the future."

Alice grins. "I got that sense as well. She was telling me quite a lot about the society here... and made a special mention of the many children who hope to apprentice in Outlandish trades. Her own niece, included."

"This bears consideration," he concurs. "We would nae wan'teh anger the clans by removing opportunities from those who seek apprenticeships a'th' Maigh, but..."

"Perhaps," Alice suggests slowly, "we might do a bit of research into forgotten or lost trades? If we can _create_ more work, then more apprentices will be needed..."

Tarrant grins at his wife and – again – _marvels._ "I ha' th' mos' saganstitute Alice in aul o' Underland," he informs her softly.

"And if she is the _only_ Alice in all of Underland?" she replies with a wide smile of humor.

"Then aul th' more awespicious," he murmurs. Uncaring of the dimming twilight and the people and creatures milling about from tent to bath house to shop stall to stew pot, he leans toward his wife and kisses her. Thoroughly.

Tarrant takes his Time – and a fair bit of Alice's Time, as well... but these sorts of things must be done _properly! –_ and only when the laughter and murmurings of uninvited onlookers begin to register does he pull back. And even then, he does so reluctantly.

Alice opens her eyes and looks at him. "You don't have any lost time to make up for," she reminds him, delivering the answer to the question he sees in her eyes. Yes, the kisses he gives her have changed, but not because _he _had missed any opportunities to kiss his wife. No, he lingers at her lips and prolongs their embraces now because...

"Alice, for how long were you without _my_ kisses? Surely, I can attempt to compensate you for that."

She grins. "All right. In that case, I suppose I can let you." And when she lifts her face for another kiss, he immediately obliges.

"And now," he remarks softly, ignoring the chattering and caterwauling and whistles, "shall we locate Tam?"

"We'd better. He'll forgive us for many things, but not if we make him miss his supper."

They wander around the corner of the castle wall, toward a mostly-drained but too-small field. It had been deemed too narrow to accommodate any of the games or crowds of spectators, but the rambunctious galumphing of littlin' after littlin' fit rather nicely within its safe boarders.

Tarrant sweeps the field with his gaze, looking for a swamp-mud-splattered boy with red-gold and curly hair – which could quite possibly be accessorized with twigs and bits of hanging moss – and stumbles to a halt just as Alice's hand urgently grips his jacket sleeve.

Their hearts Stop.

For a long, breathless moment, Tarrant can only gape and gawk.

"Is that...?" Alice begins in a voice that is nearly devoid of breath.

"Our Tamial, aye." Tarrant gulps as he watches his son lecture and then demonstrate with great flair... "Futterwhackening..."

And the shorter figure beside their son does its best to copy the movements, managing to do so but with considerably less panache.

"... with a... girl?" Alice wheezes.

Tarrant wheezes with her. This is very much a moment for wheezing, he decides. Or possibly outgribing... Or both.

"Does this mean... what I think it means?" Alice finally asks, no doubt prompted to do so by her Muchness and Curiosity.

"Aye," Tarrant allows, reaching blindly for her hand. "Aye, it does."

From the other side of the field, Tamial's voice carries as he instructs his young and lovely student, "You need to think of something happier."

"Happier?" she answers in tone far too bewitching to belong to a mere littlin'. Oh, no. _That_ is the voice of a Lass. "Like what?"

Tam huffs, immune to her teasing. "Like... flying! Like feeling the wind in your face or... like winning a duel or like... outracing Time or..."

"Like kissing?"

"Eh... huh?" Tam appears utterly flunderwhapped by the suggestion. "Ki—?" he squeaks.

With a look Tarrant recognizes Very Well – for his Alice has worn it on _numerous _occasions – the little lass leans toward Tamial and invites, "I'm _sure_ I'll think _much_ happier thoughts if _you_ kiss me..."

"Uhm, I... W-w-well..."

Tarrant holds his breath. His chest aches as Alice does the same.

Tam gulps very visibly in the darkening evening. "Uh... all right..."

And that is how Tamial Hightopp not only receives his first – and thankfully chaste! – kiss, but also how he manages to achieve heretofore un-managable and ought-to-be-impossible Futterwhacken steps.

Tarrant watches in apprehensive dismay as his son positively _glows_ with happiness. He grins... well, _madly_ as he Futterwhackens beside a lass who – from the look of _that _smile – must have a bit of Cheshire in her family tree somewhere! Tarrant opens his mouth – to despair or moan or beg for mercy, he's not sure which – but nothing whatsoever emerges.

It is Alice who, at least, manages: "Er... have you spoken to Tam about... um, _girls_, yet?"

Tarrant frantically shakes his head in the negative.

_Bloody bulloghin' brangergain!_

He remembers – with great trepidation! – when his own Fa had sat him down for The Chat and – _blast i'tall _– he'd been about Tam's age at the time and... Horridly, completely, wretchedly...! A bloody Fate Worse Than Death...!

"Surely not?" Alice inquires, very obviously (and bravely) biting back a snort – or several – of amusement and Tarrant realizes he must have been muttering aloud.

"What? I... oh! I..." He glances across the field at his son who is now _giggling along with that __**lass**__!_ Tarrant's heart pounds in his chest: drumbeats of Dread. Perhaps, for this occasion, he should revisit the idea of giving Tam that top hat. Had he prepared a ribbon for this? He's sure he must have! Perhaps a scarlet one, warning him of lascivious lasses and their smiles and giggles and demands for kisses and—!

"_I _could talk to him," Alice playfully suggests. "I've given advice on the subject before, if you recall."

Their first Maigh, yes, Tarrant _does _recall! Perhaps _too_ well! He meets his wife's gaze. (And if he had seen _any_ hint of apprehension in her expression, he would have taken her up on that offer!) Faced with a veritable outpouring of unsettling muchness, he quickly assures her, "No, no! I'll do it!" He utters the words on his son's behalf, thinking only of rescuing Tamial from an experience far more mortifying than the lad can contemplate. Dear Fates, how wretchedly embarrassing it would be to discuss Those Topics with one's own _Mam_, who fancies herself a Champion of her son's Chastity!

Tamial might one day forgive him, but he would never forgive himself!

As preoccupied as he is with these thoughts, the realization dawns rather belatedly – in fact, it occurs to him as Alice's muchy expression transforms into a smirk of triumph – that he had just been masterfully maneuvered into making a Promise. Tarrant blinks, considers retaliating, and then sighs. He gazes upon his wife, feeling so many things all at once – weariness and toleration and humor and love and...

"You, my Alice, are dangerously slithy, when you set your mind to it."

"Ha! Luckily for you!"

And yes, he must admit that his Alice has used her cunning to his advantage many times. "Aye," he agrees. "I'm a ver'lucky mahn, indeed."

Turning back to the now-murky-with-darkness field and suddenly-up-growing-son within it, he sighs. Tam continues grinning and Futterwhackening with the lass an the evening's emerging dragon flies. He grumbles, "I suppose this means he will finally _demand_ that the doorknob be turned around."

"If he doesn't, I'm sure the doorknob will. I'm a bit surprised Tam never realized why it was installed the way it was."

"Oh... he'll un-riddle it soon enough," Tarrant acknowledges. Yes, when his son finally demands Privacy, he will realize that his parents had been keeping an eye on him – or rather, they had been keeping _the doorknob's_ eye on him. Not that doorknobs _have_ eyes, and yet they make marvelous child monitoring devices!

Alice tugs on his arm and Tarrant stomps (very noisily) over to Tam, where they introduce themselves to the lass – a Traeva Causwoman and the very niece of their helpful guide, Inghan! – and then threaten Tam with overnight starvation if he does not accompany them back to the tent. They do not try to to get a single, coherent sentence out of him once they have seen his new _friend_ home. Alice snorts into her stew at Tam's dreamy expressions and – sometimes – vibrating ears.

Otherwise, it is a rather hum-drum sort of evening despite the fact that they have made a tent their home for the duration of the festival. Tarrant lies down beside his Alice and, exhausted from being awakened by every odd swamp and festival noise during the night before, _tumbles_ into sleep...

And then, after what seems like a _very _short duration of time, he wakes. It smells quite early in the morning and the world is cloaked in the darkness that lingers before dawn and the next round of games when Tarrant gasps and his eyelids fly open. He sits up, his heart pounding, and his wife stirs.

"What is it?" she whispers. "A nightmare?"

Her warm hands reach for him and he takes them. Mindful of their son, who is sleeping the sound sleep of the well-Futterwhackened only a step away, he whispers back, "Nae, my Alice. A _dream_."

She crawls from her pallet into his arms and listens as he tells her of the place he had visited in that dream, of its lovely, pure, golden light. "As if'twere built from Love itself," he murmurs into her hair. "An' th'Hightopps were there... _all_ of them, my Alice. An' they told me..."

Such wonderful things: their love for him and Alice and Tamial, their pride in all that they have done and will do!

"An' Townsend! He was there," Tarrant lisps quickly and quietly as Alice listens. "An' yer Mam an' yer Fa! An' they were sae proud o' ye, Alice. An' they aul luv ye sae much! Ye take afteh them aul, aye? Yer Mam's muchness an' Ascot's savvy an' yer Fa's merry madness... An' I dreamed," he tells her as quickly as possible, lest the dream start to fade away and he forgets it! "I dreamed they gave us their blessings, Alice."

"Tarrant," she murmurs on a hitching breath and only then does he feel her tears soaking into his shirt and cooling in the early morning chill. "My love, my Hatter, my Raven..." She lifts her face to his and he can just make out the edge of her smile in the darkness. "I know they did."

He smiles back. "Of course ye do," he agrees. "Of course. But still... 'twas nice teh hear."

"Yes, it was. Thank you, Tarrant, for that dream."

He giggles softly. "I am not sure I deserve thanks, my Alice. It _was_ only a dream."

"It is _still_ a dream," she insists. "Remember? I'm still dreaming us, Tarrant. And I'm not waking up."

"If that is the case," he warns her, his brows twitching with the rapture and magnitude of his thoughts, "this adventure of ours could take a very, _very_ long time."

"Perhaps," she murmurs back, "that is precisely what I intend."

Tarrant curls closer to her and sighs happily into her hair. "Then, by any and all means, my Alice, _dream._"

And then she settles down against his side, sighs out a happy breath and – for all intents and purposes – appears to do just that.

* * *

End of Chapter 12

* * *

Author's note: Next up is the epilogue and the end of OPK Book 5.


	189. Book 5, Epilogue

Rated **M **for mature themes and reference to sexual situations.

* * *

_**Epilogue**_

The Maigh.

It does not matter how many times she attends this particular festival nor how often it is hosted at Iplam as it is now; it never ceases to make Alice catch her breath at the sight of its beauty and passion and promise. Nor do the sights and sounds ever fail to remind her of that first festival, when she had been carrying her and Tarrant 's son – although they hadn't know then that the child would be a boy, or that he would be a Tamial, or that he would become a Keeper of Time so young or that his instincts about Time and the way he works would make him an Artist in his field and every clock and pocket watch he creates a masterpiece in an of itself. No, neither she nor Tarrant had known any of this when they had hosted (and attended) their first Maigh together. The only thing Alice had known – had dared to suspect – is the only thing that Absolem has ever willingly shown her of her own future in the Oraculum.

And today it is about to Happen.

Alice allows the manor door to close behind her and jogs down the steps that she had once despaired her lost Championhood upon – the steps that Tarrant had offered her tea upon... and then a sword fight in the mist of early morning – and weaves her way through the throng clogging the village center. The Champion Blossoms had retreated once again and the maypole had once again been erected. Alice can't help but snicker at the sight of it... and the shenanigans she and her husband had gotten up to _ again _ when they'd been faced with setting it up. In the end, a few stout lads had helped Tarrant (who had gently refused Alice's assistance, his eyes twinkling with mirth and passion, and reminded her that she had already helped with the maypole Quite Enough for one day).

She comes up behind her husband who has also just discharged his own duties. The young men in their clan colors mill about and fidget as they wait for their betrothed to finish their preparations within the main house. Sliding an arm around his waist, she Tickles his heart and presses against his side. After nearly thirty years of being a-Vowed, the action is automatic, as is the way he extends his arm to welcome her.

"Aul done?" he burrs and Alice tilts her head back so that she can see his expression fully from beneath the brim of her top hat.

"You, too, I see," she replies, glancing at the assortment of young men. "Are they going to curse us or thank us later?"

Tarrant snorts, cackles, and finally giggles. "We shall see..."

"Speaking of," she says with a start, "where is Tam?"

She glances up just as Tarrant rolls his eyes. "Where d'ye think, my Alice?"

She sighs. " _ Again? _ "

Beneath the brim of his hat, Tarrant's brows arch. "He's ver'be-fortuned tha' Traeva d'snae mind."

Alice snorts. "Well, how could she? Seeing as _ she's _ the one he's always going on about." She looks back over her shoulder at the path that leads behind the manor house and into the woods beyond. "At the usual place?"

"I would assume so."

And as they _ both _ can't abandon the festival that they are hosting, Alice offers, "I'll go get him. It won't be long now..."

Tarrant squeaks out a laugh. "An' if Traeva has teh wait e'en launger fer him... Fate help us aul."

Hearing the truth in that, Alice gives him a pat on shoulder before hurrying toward the house. As she takes the path, she spies Leif and Tarra... and their little lion-cub, Rend. Alice watches as her former apprentice tends to the customers at her stall while Leif wrestles with his son... doing a very good job of keeping the toddler from sharpening his new claws on the furniture his mother had crafted!

Yes, Tarrant had been right about them: Tarra had indeed waited until she'd finished her apprenticeship to wed her lion-man. And then they'd waited quite a bit longer before inquiring about conception rituals.

Alice smiles. The next time she's in Mamoreal, she really _ must _ make time to visit Tarra's workshop and let Rend claw up her boots and chew on the buckles.

_ Aptly named, that one _ , Alice allows as she disappears around the corner of the house.

The trail she follows is a familiar one and she knows the clearing to which it leads. As she glimpses it through the trees, she slows and remembers: years ago, she and Tarrant had sparred here, had Stopped Time here, had come together here. Although, in recent years, they had ceded dominion of the clearing to the next generation.

And he is here now, with his closest friend and eternal conspirator.

The sight of her son leaning back against Maevyn 's mauve stomach in the small, grassy clearing, both of them staring up at the sunset-painted sky, brings to mind more than a few occasions upon which an unslept-in bed and a missing son had prompted her and Tarrant to wait up for their erstwhile child and his partner in crime to return home.

She shakes her head as she recalls those rocky years.

The first time Tamial had convinced Maevyn to fly him to the Callion to visit his sweetheart, Alice had been frightened and infuriated beyond words. Tarrant, luckily, had not been so hindered. The punishments they had leveled on Tam _ should _ have dissuaded him – then a mere sixteen years of age – from trying such a dangerous and irresponsible stunt ever again!

However, the very next week, there had been a second instance. Once again, she and Tarrant had encountered a concurrence of midnight and an unoccupied Tamial-bed. The fifth time it had happened, Chessur had shown up, uninvited, to propose that they merely bow to the hormones of youth and appoint Maevyn as chaperone.

Alice remembers that she had stomped on Tarrant's foot before he'd wearily agreed. Impressionable and na ï ve Maevyn, entrusted to ensure that their son does nothing more irresponsible than _ kiss _ Traeva? A laughable suggestion if there ever were one!

"We shall simply do what we _ should _ have been doing for years," Alice had admitted. "What we should have done after the first Festival of War Games."

"Lock the little boggletog in his closet at night?" Chessur had mused playfully.

Alice had snorted even as Tarrant had made an appreciative noise of agreement. "We shall invite those of age in Causwick to apprentice to a trade here, in Iplam."

And so young Traeva had come to Iplam and had taken a shine to silver-smithing.

"She's e'en more talented than mae Mam was," Alice recalls Tarrant musing as he'd turned Traeva's very first silver hair comb over again and again in his hands. Alice had fingered the Champion-themed hatpins she'd been given (and which she is wearing very proudly now in her Hightopp top hat!) and allowed that they were exquisite creations. "What do think, my Alice?" Tarrant had suddenly and brightly asked, holding up the delicate comb he'd been gifted. "Shall I grow a beard or use it for my brows?"

She laughs silently now, at the memory. Yes, Traeva had brought quite a lot of amusement and life and activity to their family. So much so that today seems like merely a formality. Still, Tam has every right to be nervous, to confer with his best friend, to worry that he'll disappoint Traeva Causwoman... who has already suffered quite enough disappointment in her young life.

Alice frowns briefly at the thought of a very young and little Traeva, at her delicate mother and the father that Inghan had seen fit to... _remove _from Underland. Alice had never asked after the murder Inghan had done, nor why she had brought her sister and niece to the Callion with her. After all these years, Alice knows that the past is just that: past. And – if at all possible – it is best not to throw pebbles into that pond.

Tam, though, knows quite a bit more than she does, Alice is sure. And it worries him. Actually, she would say he has grown up to be just like his Fa... except for the fact that only a matter of life and death could induce his father to cuddle up next to a jabberwocky and pour out his troubles.

"Your absence is conspicuous, Tamial Hightopp," she informs him, stepping into the clearing.

Maevyn looks up and grins apprehensively in greeting.

Tam sighs. "I'm not going, Mam."

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not... Traeva isn't..."

Alice marches over to her son and kicks his highly polished boot. "She isn't going to wait _ another year _ for you, young man. Either get your scut to that festival and _ make her happy _ or watch her walk away from you."

He doesn't answer and Alice cannot see his face beneath the brim of his top hat. She watches him breathe, notes the way his always-shaggy curls tumble this way and that, just a bit longer than her ever-short hair.

"Tamial," she murmurs, kneeling in the soft, cool grass. "Do you love her?"

"Aye, Mam. But that's why I—"

"Am being a fumptwat," she finishes and he glances up sharply at that. She continues, "Whatever injuries Traeva has suffered have long since healed. And she loves you and she wants to move onward in life. Would you deny her that?"

"But, I could... Maybe I'm not... the right... man for her..."

Alice stares into his eyes, pale with worry, and she shakes her head. "She chose you, Tam. _ Ten years ago _ . At the first festival at Causwick, she chose you. And you chose her, time and time again, sneaking out of your bed late at night and getting poor Maevyn here to take you to the Callion, scaring your parents witless...! My son, your doubts... They have no place here, now. Let them go."

She reaches out and places her hands on his shoulders, squeezes his tense muscles. She watches as her son takes a deep breath.

"Now, Tamial Hightopp, youngest Keeper of Time in the known history of Underland, son of Tarrant Hightopp and Alice Kingsleigh, what does your _ heart _ tell you?"

And Alice receives the gift of watching her son's eyes color from pale yellow to gold and then darken with determination to the richest shade of cognac she has ever seen. He meets her gaze and nods once, decisively.

Alice holds out a hand to help him up and he stands without further hesitation.

"Brush off your scut, Tam," Maevyn helpfully offers. "And smile, won't you?"

Tam laughs. "Sure. I won't forget."

He takes another breath and turns on his heel. Alice and Maevyn watch as, back straight and fingers curled into fists of resolution, he strides across the clearing to the trail head and disappears into the forest.

"Thank you, Maevyn," Alice murmurs. "For always looking out for him."

The young jabberwocky turns its dawn-colored eyes on Alice and replies, "That's what friends do."

Alice nods. "Give Krystoval my best."

"I will!"

Alice lingers a moment more to watch as Maevyn launches into the air, circles the clearing once, and then takes off toward the Witzend mountains. And then Alice has no reason to linger. She takes a deep breath of her own and returns to the festival, to her husband and her son and her soon-to-be daughter-in-law.

She arrives just as the brides leave the house and she breathes a sigh of relief when she sees Tam standing with the other betrothed lads, looking confident and _ happy _ .

In short, he looks just as he _should_. He looks just as the Oraculum had shown when Alice had seen the prediction of this day so many years ago.

"An ' just what are ye lookin ' sae be-pridish o'er, mae Alice?" her husband rumbles in her ear.

She considers telling him about the Oraculum, about the scene of the future – _this _future – that she has carried with her ever since she had proposed dying on the battlefield to save Underland from a civil war. She considers sharing this... and then chooses not to. It is not necessary, she believes. And her husband has long since lost faith in that scroll. Instead, she summarizes, "You. Me. Tamial."

Tarrant winds an arm around her back and she slides one around his waist. It is not enough contact, however, and he reaches for her free hand with his own, Reaches along the heart line to her and she Answers. Standing in the circle of witnesses, they watch as their son kneels before his betrothed and intones his sonnet. They listen as his beloved sings her acceptance.

And then the Wedded Step begins.

Alice welcomes both Inghan and Traeva's mother into their family with open arms and Tarrant presses a brotherly kiss to each Causwoman's cheek. And when he meets Alice's gaze once more and his hand twitches toward her belly, she does not ask why his eyes are filled with tears. Nor does she ask why his heart is overflowing with Joy and Awe. She remembers. He does not congratulate her on predicting this moment, so many Maighs ago. She does not thank him for saving her life, for saving Tam's life, that night at the Ascots' country estate. He does not mention the fire she had walked through for him, so that he might live to see this day.

No words are spoken. Well, none are spoken _aloud._

And when the Wedded Step concludes and all are properly married and the musicians strike up a lively tune, Alice pulls her husband out into the throng, and dances. The wind whips away their tears and the music drowns out their laughter and their sighs. That does not make them any less real, of course, for they are Felt.

It's not until later – much later – that Alice emerges from this haze of a dream-come-true. The wedded couples have been chased into the manor and the barrels of Battenmead opened when a very abrupt declaration jars Alice back to reality.

"Oh, bugger," Tarrant mutters and Alice Feels his apprehension and irritation.

She looks up from her own mug of mead, following his nod and gazing in the direction in which his gaze is focused. Across the clearing, in the light of the torches, Alice watches Davon Irondirk (still unwed and still in possession of every single one of his perfect teeth) smile his most winning and charming smile... at a rather rosy-cheeked Inghan Causwoman.

"Sure as th' Fates made wee, little boggletogs, auwr lives are abou' teh enter a whole new world o' Complicated," Tarrant predicts.

"You're right," Alice replies as the steelsmith leans in and steals a kiss from the woman. Inghan blushes, blusters, and gives him a blistering scolding in Outlandish. As she storms away Irondirk's smile widens; Inghan's step has a bit too much sway in it to be a product of pure ire. "Bloody hell. You're right," she agrees.

For a brief moment, Alice wonders what ought to be done about it... and then she snorts at herself. Truly, in this case, the services of a Champion are not needed, for there is nothing _to be done. _Except prepare for the inevitable.

She sighs, shares a knowing glance with Tarrant, and they giggle drunkenly.

"Oi! Yer attention, nauw, ye drunken be-draggle-be's!" a very bossy and matronly voice shouts. Alice looks up to see Mrs. Bakerstone standing on a table with a rather large and rather full mug in hand. "We aul ken whot time i'tis!" she declares with a grin.

_Yes,_ Alice agrees, _yes, we do._ Gently, she pulls on Tarrant's arm, urging him back through the crowd until they are in the shadows of the forest. She dimly hears the selecting of the judges – and she doesn't doubt that she'd dimly heard Inghan's name among them – but her attention is focused on her husband, on Tarrant's naughty grin and his sparkling eyes. Oh, yes, for _this_ Maigh, Alice won't be kissing anyone except a certain Hightopp Hat inventor!

She wraps her arms around his shoulders and leans in for a kiss just as Mrs. Bakerstone belts out, "An' nauw, aul ye lads who b'lookin' fer a lass, _le_'_s see yer Futterwhacken!_"

Alice sees nothing except her Tarrant, which is just fine with her. The music starts and the dancing begins and Alice pulls Tarrant a bit deeper into the forest with a very _specific_ sort of Futterwhacken in mind...

She does not notice when Irondirk wins the contest and kisses Inghan with passion and skill to the hoots and hollers of the guests. She is a bit busy at that moment, although she can honestly say that her activities are in keeping with the _spirit_ of the Maigh!

She gazes into her husband's eyes – they would be violet, she knows, if only there was enough light to see by – and holds onto him tightly. Their breaths merge with every kiss and his soft moans heat her blood just as her needy whispers for more drive him to give it to her.

Ask and Give...

Just as the newly weds had Asked with a pledge and Given with a song, just as the unwed lads had Asked with a dance and been Given a kiss.

It is some time later when Tarrant finally manages to convince Alice to return to the merry-making in Hightopp Village. Their absence had apparently gone unnoticed and they easily join the dancers whirling over the trampled grass, becoming lost in the atmosphere of carefree laughter and warm drink and hearty food as the people crowding the fields of Iplam celebrate life... carrying it ever – and _forever_ – onward.

* * *

*~*~*~* The End *~*~*~*

* * *

**Fan art:** "The Family" from OPK 5, Epilogue by Erminie on Deviant Art (or follow the link from my FFnet bio)

* * *

Notes:

1. My thanks go out to Amaranthea here on FFnet, who gave me the most wonderful visual in one of her previous comments about a future Hightopp descendant having a chat with a jabberwocky in a grassy field at night, talking about his most recent love troubles. That really stayed with me and finally made an appearance here. And, of course, I love it.

2. Inghan was working at Causwick Castle when Alice and Mirana were taken hostage in Book 2. At that time, Traeva was a very little girl – maybe five or six years old – so she is considerably older than Tam... however, children who suffer trauma in Underland sort of _stop_ aging for awhile. (I mentioned in Book 4, Chapter 3 that childhood in Underland is not linear at all – sometimes children leap forward in maturity and sometimes they even lose progress gained depending on many factors) I hint here that Traeva went though something very horrible as a child, so she stopped developing until she had worked through the issue that caused the shock. When Tam meets her, she is physically only about twelve years old, but her mind is both much older and much younger (as can be the case with children who have suffered personal trauma). Which is perhaps why she seems to know precisely what she wants! What actually happened in this family? Well, that's another story, and I'm not sure it has a place in OPK. Suffice it to say that Inghan's given name is _not _Causwoman. _Causman_ and _Causwoman_ are the names adopted by people Jaspien has offered to foster, people who have come to him seeking a fresh start.

3. Now we know what Alice saw in the Oraculum in Book 4 that reassured her before the duel (she saw the same scene again when she learned of Tarrant's impending death). What did she see? She saw her son's wedding day, with herself and her husband there. So she _knew_ Tarrant would live, that she would live, that Tam would one day forgive her for being a Champion and doing what had to be done on that battlefield.

* * *

About OPK:

There may be some inconsistencies in this series because, really, this is fan fiction. I wrote it for fun and for free, so please don't expect it to be perfect. I try to answer questions from readers as best I can, but please feel free to imagine your own – individual and unique – solutions to some of these issues because, honestly, I think that would be more in keeping with the spirit of _Alice in Wonderland_.

I realize that I have left some questions unanswered – What will become of Winslow and his future career? Will his grandfather be punished for his crime? – and I have left some things unaddressed – Will Margaret notice that Alice isn't aging? If so, what will happen then? – but I felt that I had to leave these things open because the emphasis in the final book is about Alice's life in Underland and _not_ about her family in London.

Is this the end of OPK? … Perhaps. I don't have any immediate thoughts for a sixth book and, honestly, I think it would be hard to top this one. Seriously: after Alice and Tarrant have defeated Death, what more is there? Still, _if_ I happen to think up an idea for additional fics in this series (even if it's a companion fic or something) I _will_ write it down and share it. Cross my heart.

I began writing this series on May 3, 2010 – with no real expectation of writing more than the first book – and finished Book 5 on January 21, 2011 (ignore the posting date on the story). I have never written so much in so little time before. Most days, I still can't believe I managed it.

Over the course of writing and posting _One Promise Kept_, I received a great many comments and questions which propelled this series. Sometimes I was inspired to add a scene. Sometimes I was encouraged to develop a plot point in response to an inquiry or speculation. All of you who have left feedback for me have helped make this story possible, and I THANK ALL OF YOU for your generosity and love.

Happy fanfic reading... and fairfarren all!


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